You Should Have Let Me Sleep
by Missing Triforce
Summary: Archivist Aria Hooper is assigned to compile Khan's full, tragic story. But someone else soon wants it too, & the past isn't ready to rest. Crossover Universe Mash up of Star Trek/Sherlock/Elementary/Avengers! SH/JW; fem!OC/HW; Smidgens of GL/MolHop; McSpirk (if use slash googles); Spock/Uhura. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! So... we may need to institute a rule that Missing Triforce lies about her fanfiction projects. I thought my next story would be more werewolf!John, but then I saw Star Trek: Into Darkness, and my mind exploded. Sorry?**

**Anywaddles, a word. First, yeah, you read those crossovers right. I'm that crazy. This story will be primarily Treklock, but characters and concerns from CBS Elementary, Avengers, & the X-Men movies will appear. While I as a person am aware of the Marvel comics 'verse, I am sticking to the Marvel movie 'verse for this story, just for sanity's sake. There will also be some mentions of characters from other media, like Master & Commander & Merlin, but these characters will not play a large role.**

**Second, this is a lot to keep track of, so please, please tell me if I've gotten something wrong, especially you diehard Trekkies (I have a Trekkie consultant, but I can't ring her up every hour). I am most familiar with BBC Sherlock, saw Elementary, gorged on the Marvel movies, viewed both JJ Abrams Star Trek films, and am making my way through Star Trek TOS canon.**

**Third, this story is going to be long. Really long. I thought I should warn you...**

**And speaking of, WARNINGS: Slash, Femslash, Het, Badass futuristic librarians, OCs, (Major) Character death(s), Violence, Terrorism, Drugs, Mycroft disapproval**

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_You Should Have Let Me Sleep: a _Star Trek/Sherlock/Elementary/Avengers _Crossover Universe Mash up_ _Fanfic_

Chapter 1

USA Starfleet Archival Offices: Research Division; Project Khan; Stardate: 2259

"And what was your impression of him?" I asked. The answer to this question was becoming more varied as we went on with our investigation: the people who'd only had fleeting glimpse just remarked how he was fast and strong, a leather jacketed blur. Determined. The observant sort of people with an actual handful of seconds with him, regarded him as ruthless and cruel, like he could see into you and would kill you as easily as help you.

But now we were proceeding to the people who had minutes—if not whole hours—with him. Lucky us. Thoughts of him made my stomach roil a bit.

Him—he had a name and I should use it. Khan: the augmented man who had blown up my workplace and ripped up my life. If he wasn't cryogenically frozen, I might strangle him myself.

We were interviewing Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy, Tim clicking away at his tablet laptop to make sure we got a double transcript of the proceedings. He would type while the computer simultaneously recorded the conversation and I asked the questions. We wanted back ups of the back ups of the back ups, considering, and Tim's transcript would be easier to dissect and comb through over again and again than a voice recording.

McCoy was mulling over the question. He looked out the window, as if the view of the academy would help him form words. I didn't blame him. McCoy had this strange way of speaking, like words could only come out of one side of his mouth, and he wanted his lips to move as little as possible. He had deep circles under his eyes, and a grimace seemed his natural expression. The worry lines on his face were only matched by the dry, wrinkled lines on his hands, more wrinkled than a man's at this age ought to me. Still, despite the obvious exhaustion, his hair shone tawny brown, and he looked young by the set of his shoulders, almost vulnerable if you looked too closely, but if you looked that close he would most likely snap and stab you with a needle.

We were up in the small office USA Archives had provided Tim and I, and the space was sterile: I hadn't the cash to decorate much. It was white carpeting and walls, a simple gray desk with a desktop computer, a small gray dumbwaiter that would make coffee and food appear and disappear with the touch of a button, and a couple of standard issue bright green chairs. Harry Watson, the tech person of our team who had her own computer down in the bowels of Starfleet where something like sunlight couldn't distract her, had given me a tiny cactus as a joke desk decoration. Other than that, the only decorative luxury my budget allowed was the squishy leather couch McCoy sat on (shut up: squishy couches were essential) Even the coffee table was from Starfleet: lime green to match the chairs. We sat across from McCoy in the chairs, and I watched the steam rise from our tea.

I clasped my hands together on my skirt. There was good tea in the States, though I still couldn't find my favorite London brands.

"You know, he reminded me of fire."

I started at the sound of McCoy's voice. Blinking and hoping my face wasn't heating up in embarrassment, I smiled. "Sorry?"

McCoy was looking at me, but not seeing: like he was glaring Khan in the face and not a Starfleet librarian. "This may sound crazy, but it's the best way I can describe it. He was cunning—diabolical even—and while he never panicked, you could tell he was passionate about something. Emotional, but in a controlled way. A controlled fury. All for his crew, I guess, but I'd never believe it. Maybe that's what got twisted when he was augmented. Maybe that's the human bit they tampered with. A sociopath who can love." McCoy clenched his fist in his lap. "He had us all figured out and never moved an unnecessary muscle to make us do what he wanted. He was cooperative when he knew he needed to be. He let me take his blood after all."

McCoy nodded, and I took this as a sign he was done with his description. "And do you still possess some of his blood?" I asked.

McCoy sighed. "The police took the sample I had left." He scowled. "That blood could have numerous scientific applications! It's bringing Kirk back to life, even if it also knocked him out." His eyes glittered a bit, but he finally gave a wry smile. "Do you know if they'll give it over to medical research at all? Or are they going to dispose it like a bunch of blue collared idiots?"

I shook my head. "I'm sorry, sir. We're just from Archives."

"Well, if you can swing it that way at all, do it."

I nodded. "Anything else you'd like to add to the record?"

"Not that I can think of. And…" He checked his watch, "I need to check on our sleepy beauty."

Tim tried to smother a chuckle with a cough. McCoy and I stood and shook hands. "Thank you so much for your time, Doctor. Please let me know if you think of any new information you'd like stored in Archives." The words came easily: I had rehearsed and said them so many times I didn't think about them anymore. I just hoped he hadn't noticed my brain wandering off to think of tea towards the end.

"It's a pleasure, Miss Hooper."

It didn't look like it was a pleasure. He spared Tim and I one last, possibly fake smile before putting his grim face back on and waving himself out the door. Maybe Kirk's condition was more critical than we thought? Or maybe that was simply his normal face.

The door slid shut, and I sighed heavily.

"Well, two down, two more to go."

I let my professional veneer disappear, my shoulders to go slack. I was a person of masks: to my team, I could be myself, really—whatever that was at the moment; the explosion had confused it all—but to others I was quiet, professional, and unobtrusive. I didn't want to be noticed. But with just Tim here, I flopped down on the couch, let my feet hang off one armrest, and groaned. Tim laughed. "Now, now, Aria, don't lose your nerve."

"We're back to people who think he's evil incarnate."

I watched Tim purse his lips. "I think Bones had some compassion. And maybe Rima Harewood and Nancy Myers were flukes."

I turned to frown at the ceiling. "But no one's actually that cartoonishly evil. It's like we're circling around and around him, but missing his center: what makes Khan, _Khan_?"

Rima was the wife of Thomas Harewood, the one Khan coerced into blowing up my previous office space. She was adamant that her husband would never do something like that, and the Federation's investigation had revealed that Khan had offered some of his blood to their dying daughter Lucille in exchange. It was still a manipulation on Khan's part, even if the manipulation involved saving a child's life. Nancy, meanwhile, was a wonderful woman, large and motherly. Somehow, she was also a prison warden on the _Enterprise_, but she said Khan had been a model prisoner. He was quiet, polite, did as he was told, had calmly and truthfully (except for the name bit) answered all the questions she asked him as part her paperwork, had made no attempt to escape, and had not even made an attempt on her life, which she cheerfully informed me was what Kirk's few prisoners often did. I had been a little taken aback at this, but still nibbled on the chocolate chip cookies she'd brought. Afterwards, Tim and Harry said they liked Nancy best out all our interviewees, though this was admittedly while chomping down the rest of her cookies.

I heard Tim sigh and then shrug—I could see the top of his black bowl cut rise and fall. You'd think a bowl cut would not win him any points, but somehow it worked for him. Maybe it was the glasses (that he didn't need, the snot), and the mole on left temple. Straight ladies must dig it.

Filing away my thoughts I said, "Only two more interviews. That seems impossible in itself, and we saved all the big people for last." I put my hands on my face. "Thank God we already did Uhura."

"_That_, I will say, from my end was hilarious, but from yours I'd say an utter disaster. You practically asked her for her autograph, mate."

"No one that talented deserves to be that attractive," I declared. "Smart people should be plain. It's character building."

"I wouldn't say you're plain."

I huffed. My brown curls were cropped, almost in a boy's cut. After the explosion, I was too tired in the mornings to tame my hair, so I'd cut it. I think some people found it disarming to see a boy's hair on such a girlishly round face. Then again, the shortness, brown eyes, and glasses—the epitome of a human mouse—dissuaded most from giving me the second glance it would take to be disarmed.

"What if I say something stupid to James T. Kirk, the hero of the hour. Or Spock? He really will think I'm an idiot," I complained.

"Just ask them the already established questions. No need to get creative, if you'd not like to. We did spend two days hammering out this script."

"Easy for you to say: you get to hide behind that computer." I glared at him from where I was on the couch.

"How are you even my boss? You just like to hang around books in your pajamas."

"Well, shockingly, no one will pay me for that." I self-consciously tugged on the hem of my blue uniform skirt. Why did it have to be so short? "And books like me better than you."

Tim laughed again. "Well, order us something to eat while I begin to translate out this typist speak. We've got to catch Mr. Spock in an hour and half. Starfleet Command's got him too busy to pop down."

"You're a saint, Tim," I said, only half sarcastic. "The best assistant."

Tim just hummed a satisfied agreement as he typed more on his tablet. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the soft thumming sound of fingers against plastic screen lull me. But my stomach rumbled and I rolled over, wobbling off the couch and onto my legs. I had to keep going.

After Tim and I scarfed down our noodles, we packed up his tablet and the recording equipment to go to Starfleet Headquarters. Mr. Spock was squeezing us in between two other meetings: one on Starfleet command and one with the police investigative team on the late Admiral Alexander Marcus.

The walk between buildings was nice. The classic San Francisco fogs and mists had receded: despite the seeming lifetimes that had been packed in the last two weeks, it was still summer. A light breeze swayed the trees planted in the cement—if you ignored the still smoking wreckage of the _USS Vengeance _behind HQ, it was a rather nice day. Tim didn't like looking at it: he winced a little before training his eyes on his feet.

We crossed the quad from Starfleet General Offices to Starfleet Command Headquarters, passing the Starfleet Academy auditorium. One glass door, security check, and badge swipe later we were in the elevator and heading up. The fourth floor doors opened to one Mr. Spock, waiting for us.

"Archivist Hooper?" he asked, looking at us expectantly as we walked out of the elevator.

"Mr. Spock, I presume?" I said, putting on a mask and a smile and putting out hand. Vulcans did that, right? Shook hands? I'd never met one before and my area of specialization was Earth culture and history. Thankfully, he did take it, his shake soft, but firm. In fact, it matched his whole body language: he _looked_ soft, barely any sharp angles, but his stance and shoulders were as firm as his Starfleet Lieutenant uniform, at attention, his black hair a perfect cut to match Tim's, though contrasting harshly with his snow pale skin. The only give away that he had been under strain were the gray circles under his eyes, the same ones Doctor McCoy had.

He let go of my hand, and I fought down a blush. His eyes were quietly intense. "This-this is Tim, my assistant," I stuttered. "He'll be drawing up a transcript of our conversation for Archive records."

"Yes," Spock said, eyes now assessing Tim, who didn't so much as blink faster.

I coughed a little, nervous. "Do you have a preference for where we conduct this interview? We can't do it in the hall due to potential interference from people walking by."

"Yes, I have been given permission to use an old office," Spock replied. He turned and walked down the hall a little, Tim and I shuffling after.

Spock stopped and pressed a green button to open the door. With a start, I realized it was Admiral Pike's old office, his name plate still on the door. Spock stepped in and went straight for the massive desk, gestured for Tim to take the main seat and for him and I to sit in the plush red guest chairs.

I more perched myself atop my chair and dug my script out of the bag. Spock settled in his chair and I tried to smile again, hopefully not looking high or like a serial killer. According to official guidelines, I was supposed to build rapport with my interviewees before the actual interview because small talk indicates care and confidence, and then they would be more likely to speak openly later. My usual way to go about this was to attempt a joke or bring humor: "How are you today, Mr. Spock? Besides lots of meetings?"

"I am doing what is required," he said.

Well, that didn't get me anywhere really. He just folded his hands together on his lap, the picture perfect of a waiting student.

"I hear your Captain is going to wake up soon. Are you looking forward to it?"

Spock dipped his head in a nod and if I didn't know better, he might have suppressed a smile. Maybe it was more his whole aspect looked more relieved. "As a loyal lieutenant should, I am relieved that my captain's well-being is improving, Archivist Hooper."

Tim cleared his throat, "I'm ready whenever you are."

"Well, shall we get started, Mr. Spock?" I smiled. It would be easier and more natural now. I had found something that Spock liked.

"If you wouldn't mind, I had a question for you first," he said.

I felt my eyes widen in surprise, but nodded assent. People didn't usually ask us questions, all too eager to share their experience and get it on permanent record. "Sure, go ahead."

"I do not mean to offend, but what is the purpose of your project? The Federation police investigation have already had the _Enterprise_ crew write statements, and their team gathered as much data as possible on Khan. They will release this data to the public, which will go on record in Archives. Forgive me for saying so, but your work seems unnecessary, as you are not aiding the police in their already extensive investigation."

The smile on my face vanished: did Spock just say what I think he said? My mask began to crack. A hundred angry thoughts buzzed alive in my head. Why did everyone think Archives was irrelevant? Why did they see that my building and work was so unimportant that they could build weapons underneath it, despite the fact that was entirely against what Archives stood for, and then have some terrorist _blow it up_?!

My emotions must have shown on my face because Tim was looking at me in a strange mix of horror and concern. Spock may or may not have shifted in his seat and leaned slightly away.

I tried to smooth my expression. Okay. He didn't mean it. He's just curious. He's a Vulcan; they like to know things. Logical things. Vulcans were the best office downsizers you could ask for. You know this. He just needs to be educated to not meet with an Archives officer and tell them their life is insignificant.

"Aha, I understand your confusion," I said. "Are you familiar the principle of Chekov's gun?"

"I am familiar with the military maneuver. The captain orders—"

"No, I mean, the _literary_ principle," I said, not looking at his face anymore, not wanting the information looking at a face could give you—I needed to focus to explain this correctly and not blow up myself. "It was originally coined by Russian playwright Anton Chekov in 1889."

"I am unfamiliar with Russian playwrights or plays." Good: he sounded a tad uncomfortable. I plowed onward.

"The principle of Chekov's gun suggests that in any story, if an author shows a loaded gun in the first act, the gun must to fired by the end. This gun is metaphorical of course—" I glanced up to see if he was following and was mollified to see he was—"it can be anything. Any loaded potential in the story: a character's fear, a caged elephant, a strong desire, you name it.

"At Archives, we hold a certain belief that everything is a story. History is an origin story we tell ourselves repeatedly. We are writing our present. The future is the story yet to be told. And Khan," Bitterness leaked into my voice before I could stop it, "Khan is a loaded gun." I glared at my lap, angry again. "He's frozen now and we think we're safe, but one day, he will wake and we must prepare future humanity.

"The Federation police are only interested in explanations, something they can put on their reports, something to tell the public. They don't want to think about Chekov's gun. And they're busy, I suppose, but meanwhile you have a whole lot of Archivists out of officespace because their building was turned into a crater and angry as hell because Admiral Marcus tampered with our existing records on this Khan Noonien Singh. Whatever file we had on him, Marcus erased it. We aren't even able to verify the identities of the other seventy-two augmented humans currently holed up in some Starfleet basement."

I sighed, angry draining out of me as I thought of all the work that had to be put into this new file we were creating, this new defensive file.

"You're a Vulcan, you must understand that knowledge is power, and we want to create a database on Khan and this kind so the next generation will be prepared, more prepared than a past incidents file and brief biographical sketch, and we need to see how much Admiral Marcus erased. My remaining coworkers back in London and your American Archivists here are fact-checking, polishing, rebuffing, and backing up every single Archive file to make sure Admiral Marcus's grimy hands haven't sullied them."

After taking a breath, I finally felt sane enough to look up. Spock looked at me with something like respect, I think. At least he nodded. I smiled a little. "I apologize for my outburst. It's been a hard two weeks. I just…. I know a lot of people who aren't ever coming home."

Their faces, their scared, burning faces drifted in and out of my dreams: Michael, Allan, Jessica, Michelle, Darla, Mary, Natasha, Rachel…. The police said they were killed instantly. By some miracle, Asif, my boss, was alive, still grouching out orders. He had been the one to shove a plane ticket under my nose, saying I needed to get out, to go home to the States.

"Are the Federation police not cooperating with you then?"

"They'll let us seen their uncensored report," I said. "But that can't be added to our file and I doubt that much information won't go public. It's hard to cover up an enormous spaceship in San Francisco Bay and, given my understanding of your Captain's personality, he will no doubt tell the people everything no matter what."

There it was again: that suppressed smile and loosening of tension. He really did admire his Captain. "I apologize for any offence, Archivist Hooper. If you do not mind, let us continue to the interview."

Tim chimed in, relieved, "I'm ready to begin."

I smiled once more and said, "So Mr. Spock…"

Despite its firework beginning, the rest of Mr. Spock's interview was pretty typical, though this was not what I was expecting from a Vulcan observer. Khan's usual adjectives of "ruthless" and "cunning" showed up, as well as the same "cold fury" Doctor McCoy described. Spock blamed him for Kirk's near death, and, given what I could tell of the affection between the Captain and his First Lieutenant Commander, this was a permanent black mark in Spock's book. Spock took pains to emphasize how dangerous Khan was, how manipulative, how he was not to be trusted.

The only irregular bit was an emphasis on how dependent on his crew Khan was. "The instant you endangered his crew, Khan would still and re-evaluate his present circumstances. It was his primary goal—I believe the only reason he wished to disable the _Enterprise_ was to prevent us from further tampering with them. Even during his escape from Marcus, he attempted to smuggle his crew with him: an illogical move if his sole goal was to to be free of the Admiral's control and in fact an endangering move to his mission."

"Do you have any idea why?"

"He described them as his family."

"Seventy-two is an awfully large family."

"For the humans I have encountered, family is held in importance no matter how large or small it is. He did not want to lose track of a single one."

"Did he ever admit to losing any family?"

"Not…specifically."

Spock explained about Spock the Elder and the other dimension's battle with Khan. Tim and I had not heard the full of the story before: we knew about Spock the Elder, of course—had a whole database on him—but we did not know the full extent of his involvement in this recent battle. Uhura had referenced it obliquely, but refused details. I knew that Spock and she were in a relationship, and having an alternative dimension self was a bit of a personal thing: best leave him to explain it how he wants.

Two hours later, we were finished with our questions and said our goodbyes pleasantly enough. I hadn't forgotten the insult, but I had forgiven him. On the whole, Spock's interview on top of McCoy's left my head whirling. Was this the man who had nearly brought Starfleet to its knees? A sociopath who was not a sociopath when it came to a group he determined to be his family?

As we made our way back across the courtyard, Tim spoke up, "One more to go."

"Hmmmm," I said. I wasn't really in the mood to talk. I wanted to think, sort things out, but Tim thought out loud best, and I wanted to oblige him. "James Tiberius Kirk, commonly called 'Jim.' Let's just hope he's not hopped up on so many painkillers he's rendered incoherent."

"Khan's blood must be something else to repair that much radioactivity damage."

"And he seems to have no qualms about sharing," I said. "Kirk, Bones, that random tribble, and Lucille were loaded with it."

"Do we have access to blood tests? Lucille's and Kirk's would be interesting."

"Yeah, those are unclassified." I wove my hand distractedly. The swirling thoughts in my mind were now centering on that blood, the possibilities of it. What information can be garnered from blood? What additional aspect of this terrorist could we capture? Chemical concentrations, cell tissue, platelet and red/white blood cell counts. With the interviews finished, we would a new direction for our project. But those tests were the work of a week, a week of waiting mostly. Lab test results sometimes took forever. Well, we would have our busywork: organizing our present data into separate files, a (cross) index to connect them all…

"We could have microscopic blow ups of his different cell types—with comparison to an average human male's from his period of origin. We have those on file, am I right? I'm no biologist, but he probably has a ton of mitochondria, to be able to keep that active," Tim mused.

"Yeah: those could potentially be helpful, but I feel like we're missing a huge gap in his story. The Eugenics War was different in this dimension than the one Mr. Spock was describing."

"How so?"

"Well for a start, it didn't occur until the 2010s. And even then it was hardly an all out war with pseudo-Napoleons carving up continents. It was like two Napoleons in a Cold War, though less on the ideology and more on the spite. Well, some ideology about making a 'better' human race. It gets lost a bit with the aliens invading, the Mutant Debate, and the Age of Marvels creating alternate realities every other week," I snorted. "Idiots."

"So a spy versus spy sort of thing."

"Yeah, countries mucking up things for each other. Pet projects going awry." We were back in Starfleet General Offices by then, rising in the glass elevator back to our floor. I bit my lip, thinking, seeing and not seeing the receptionist become smaller. "Lots of computer hacking and globe trotting James Bond types…"

Globe trotting. Yes! That was it!

I grabbed Tim by the shoulders, ignoring his protesting un-masculine squeak and confused eyes. "Tim! Do you remember that _National Geographic_ project several centuries ago? People would send them droplets of their blood and the magazine would give you a map marked up with where your bloodline goes, dating as far back as Mesopotamia and Lucy?"

"What? You're the historian! Why do you think I—"

"We can do that!"

"With Khan's blood?" Tim said, incredulous and worried I would tear his arms off with enthusiasm.

"Yes! And those forensics—those teams they have—they can determine family lines by blood, can't they? Just give them a sample and they can match you up with a family!"

"I don't know, Aria. His DNA would be all different now, wouldn't it?"

"There must be a trace!" I said, triumphant. This _had_ to work. "He's human enough! Only augmented!"

I released the non-believer as our elevator dinged and I raced to our office to type up an email. I called over my shoulder, "Bones said he gave the blood to the Federation—they wouldn't mind us taking some, to test and make those slides you said."

"Have you been sleeping enough?" Tim yelled, trotting to keep up.

Opening our door and quickly sitting at our desk, I refrained from flashing a two finger salute because that would mean I had to take a hand away from typing. The computer was whirring to life after our absence, and I had our email opened in a flash and an email addressed to Detective Dimmock in another.

Tim came up behind me and warily watched me request a blood sample. "This is mad, you know. He's too different."

"He was in a war," I said. "There must be someone he left behind."


	2. Chapter 2

**So, normally, I'll update this story once a week, but I wanted to give you a general gist of the format: the chapters will alternate between the two timelines. And I was kind of excited. This is a pretty new POV for me.**

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Chapter 2

Whitehall, London; Stardate: 2009

There are numerous ways a person can contact me, for the statistically few people who know of my existence—and the importance of my existence—usually need to reach me at a moment's notice.

I did purposefully divert some of them: some people falsely thought their importance was high enough to warrant my attention, but their petty business actually did not, and their numbers were automatically routed to one of my secretaries for screening. For organization, there were different secretaries for different divisions and each division was given different contact numbers.

When your specialism is omniscience, you need such organizational methods. The human brain is a complex, creative thing, and a computer routing and screening these calls would never do. No: the information I dealt with on a daily basis required smooth voices, clear syllables, delicate hands, crisp lines, and prompt transfers. All of my secretaries were trained to handle threats from angry militants and diplomats, taught to babble in all manner of tongues, had minds as precise as surgeons; as understanding as psychologists, and, when the situation required, as unrelenting as death.

Yet there was one phone line they were not allowed to touch. No matter how manicured their nails or how much knowledge they held of my schedule.

The line was an untraceable mobile that I kept in the pocket of my suit. All my suits. I answered calls from it twenty four-seven, whether from the cream Egyptian cotton of my bed at 3 o'clock in the morning or during breaks in intricate diplomatic meetings.

This line was, of course, my family's.

It was a delicate time, as ever. For a family of logic and intellect as we were, it may surprise you how emotionally turbulent our home life was. We huddled together equally out of filial loyalty and desperate need for someone to understand us in a world in a full of noise and ignorance. Despite our feuds, differences, and clashing needs for independence, we stood by one another and aided each other when it was called for. It was our family's way.

In this manner, we had all the emotion ever wanted out of a human. Our father would jestingly blame our emotional distresses on our mother's French grandmother—the renowned artist—and our mother would reply by promptly throwing whatever she was holding at his head: usually a gardening tool. She loved her flowers and her music: it was my father who furnished the house with his preferred luxuries. My mother's sphere was the opulent Sussex grounds and gardens.

To be fair, my brother did possess an artistic bent in his otherwise logical mind: his violin and his own bohemian sense of style in clothes and room design. His detective work—which was kissing close to an art in any case—did not call for an endless parade of suits and dramatic coats. If anything, it called for obscurity, plainness, un-remarkability: hiding within sight. But no: instead he filled his personal rooms with macabre skulls, books on serial killers, and oblique, pale floating scientific specimens.

I took more after my father, I suppose. Mummy created English rose gardens. Father collected seventeenth century Dutch paintings. He was a collector of fine things. I am a collector of fine things and fine information, rather than an artistic creator. The music Sherlock wrung from his violin could make me tremble, or weep, if he concentrated. I loved his playing.

While his artistic bents bestowed their own blessings, he was also cursed chaotic. The Holmes clan's minds were always running and without our own type of fodder, they would crumble and spiral into ennui.

And Sherlock was refusing any sort of positive stimulation, intent on his own ends.

It was difficult being the eldest, and the eldest by several years. Sherlock and I were close as children, and it near broke his heart when I went to university, even though I visited whenever possible. He seemed to somehow have mistook my absence for aloofness, and had gotten it into his head that he must weaken his human attachments, including those to his family, in order to be great. He had struck out on his own, refusing help from me, on this consulting detective business. Emotions were confusing and blinding things, like looking too long in the sun, but they had their uses. All hearts break, but hearts can also be understood and manipulated. And to understand and manipulate, you must have one yourself.

His new scheme, whatever its direct purpose was, fully engaged his risk-taking proclivities. I kept my mobile close. During high-risk times like now, I had Sherlock on twenty-four hour watch, and hourly text updates were sent in. All very discreet, all very hush. Sherlock and I knew each other's secrets and follies and could fool each other with them.

Sometimes it felt like too little, too late. My brother was out every night, intoxicating his brain to the point of it ceasing to function and freely letting out his body to anybody asking, as if wishing to erase his brain and only feel and then cancel the feeling out. Major actions would have to be taken soon—our parents were taking notice, even Father, who was so obsessed with his business ventures we'd barely seen him since birth except when he came by to lecture us into submission. Him becoming interested was the Holmes equivalent of calling in the calvary, as it were.

Tonight's situation:

_23:00: SH at Kingspin London Club; went into alley briefly before entering & slipped CCTV; came out with dilated pupils; entered club _

_24:00: SH performing club activities_

_1:00: SH performing club actives_

_2:00 SH performing club activities_

_3:00: SH exiting with unidentified female; headed towards Crown Motel_

_3:02: Female identified: Raven Darkholme. Former Mutant Alias: Mystique. US citizen. Visiting UK to make contacts & recruit to ELen cause_. _Threat Level: Yellow_

The mutant situation was volatile, but the majority of the fighting centered in the States, particularly New York City, like a fetish overgrown. The UK as I ran it, thankfully, had little time for such militaristic domestic politics. Mutants equality had been in law since 2007. Criminal containment research had begun the moment I was fully appraised of the situation, back in the late 1990s. Our only purposes now were to assure that Mutant terrorists didn't hide themselves away in our borders and to keep strict control over the Mutant Serum—perfected by Magneto in 2008—and the Mutant 'Cure' Serum. As a result, any follower of the revived Xavier or Lensherr was closely monitored during their stay. And Sherlock, of all the people he could bed in London, he had sniffed out the glamorous Mystique, to whom, our agents said, Magneto had given his profoundest apologies and re-recruited to his cause, restoring her powers with the stab of a needle.

For Sherlock, Threat Level Yellow meant worried. Our Holmesian abilities, while admirable, were not of interest to Magneto's still active Brotherhood of Mutants. Too human. Raven might just be looking for the same thing as he, enjoying the return of her elongated youth. Then again…

With mere touches of my keyboard, I quickly dispatched some of our on duty Mutant Team Agents—a special force of my own devising—for surveillance. While our family members did not meet Mutant standards, we did have powerful minds that could be taken advantage of. Our abilities were not widely advertised—my importance was on a need to know basis—but this Raven may discover something of interest in my brother, an interest I would not allow her to pursue. Sherlock was lost enough already without adding American politics to the mix.

Having dealt with Sherlock, I returned to the report I was reading. It was late, to be sure, but this Operation Jimmy Cricket needed urgent attention. It was a research project from Baskerville's scientific labs, using the Super Solider Serum developed in the States, though originally via Germany. They wanted to begin human testing. I leaned back in my office chair and steepled my fingers, considering the consequences. I closed my eyes.

File: Superhero/Mutants. Subfile: S.H.I.E.L.D operations, Project Avengers, headed by Nick Fury.

Top man, Mr. Fury.

Personnel File: Steve Rogers, Superhero Alias: Captain America

Ridiculously patriotic, though I suppose he was from the 1940s. Had the period crystallized in ice, practically, if that metaphor was not too heavy-handed.

Historical considerations: Rogers was put in intensive training before selection. The wrong choice had obvious results: See Personnel File: Johann Schmidt Super villain Alias: Red Skull, Organization: Hydra.

There was also the question of control, and this mental pathway had been considered before. I had a thought of a trick for this, an interesting solution that played on human social nature, designed to prevent power hungry vigilantes like Schmidt from ever happening—

The mobile beeped and vibrated against the oak wood of my desk.

_3:34: Physical activities have ceased. Darkholme engaging him in conversation. Threat Level: Yellow_

Speaking? What was the nature of the conversation? _Report nature of conversation._

_3:40: Darkholme has discovered intellect, transformed into true form, and now aims to have him join Magneto in Brotherhood of Mutants. Darkholme has left window surveillance area. Threat Level: Orange_

_3:41: Darkholme is presenting SH with needle. Possibly contains Mutant Serum. Threat Level: Red_

Damn it, Sherlock!

Anger flared from my stomach, but I quickly suppressed it in favor of typing out the redundant orders: _Bring SH home immediately. Contact family medical authorities._

Baskerville's report would have to wait.

As soon as my computer was off and secure, I picked up the soft leather handle of my briefcase, tucked my umbrella under my arm, and walked out of my office: unlike Sherlock with his art, it was bare and inconspicuous and where I actually did most of my work (I had another office, much more plush and rich, for intimidating people). Anthea was at the desk outside, typing out a memo to the Circus. "Anthea, we have a Sherlock situation."

Anthea, bless her, simply nodded, and grabbed her purse. With a touch of a button, her computer was off, and she fished her blackberry out her purse. "Where to, sir?"

"Montague Street, I believe. Sherlock has gotten tangled with Mystique and is being extracted as we speak."

"Very good, sir."

Anthea led the way out of Whitehall, hazelnut eyes still on her Blackberry screen. . I always liked Anthea best of my more personal assistants. Anthea was the most hard working of them, having many surface dealings with different pies I'd put a finger in. The woman never had a brown hair out of place and had excellent taste with her suits—tonight's was a charcoal grey. Jenny, meanwhile, would take personal calls to her far too clingy boyfriend on her work phone, which was mildly unprofessional considering my line of work, even if they were in code, and Amy was a shade too eager to intimidate any objectors.

The black car was waiting as we exited Whitehall, humming in life. We slipped in, the doors shutting with a satisfying thump; Patrick Owens, 37, two children, civil partnership, was our driver. "Montague Street, Mr. Owens, with all speed."

"Very good, sir."

"And do please redirect the traffic, Anthea."

"Yes, sir," she nodded. Her thumbs paused briefly, and I saw the thought on her face before she said it, "Will Mr. Holmes be requiring medical attention?"

"It is already taken care of."

She nodded again before refocusing on her Blackberry screen. I leaned back into the leather cushions and sighed. This promised to be unpleasant. Sherlock despised interference with any of his projects, even from me, even if done with the best intentions.

I rubbed my temples. Perhaps it was time for Plan 1c: hire live-in handler.

Plan 1c was for longer term care. Sherlock had failed to self-monitor, as he'd promised. Plan 1c was laid in hopes they would induce some.

The family line beeped in my pocket. _4:08:_ _Raven made to leave. Minimal damage to motel room: owners compensated. Agent FS injured. SH subdued and in transport. Injuries: 0.19 alcohol level_._ Trace effects of cocaine._

It seems his brother dearest was flirting with total blackout.

This indeed had to be stopped.

With Anthea's redirections, we arrived at Montague Street in a quarter hour. "Mr. Owens, if you would find a nearby parking place. I may stay over Anthea's working limit and have Jenny needed to be brought in. I will inform you of any changes."

"Right you are, Mr. Holmes," replied Patrick.

Anthea and I exited the car, and Patrick drove off into the warm June night, the London streets a beige-gold in streetlight. I took the house key Sherlock had given me out of my pocket and easily let Anthea in.

The front entryway was a little more a threadbare floor and iron stairs snaking upward, all illuminated by dim florescent. I led Anthea up until the third floor and produced another key for Sherlock's door. With a breath for bravery, we were inside dear brother's abode.

Revealed with a flick of the light switch, the surroundings rather screeched alarm at me. The peeling pink wallpaper had yet to be replaced to a more soothing color and clutter was everywhere—one lumpy red sofa and plastic coffee table were nestled in a crowd of test tubes, beakers, books, papers, and empty tea cups. Most everything was stained, the air was stale with Sherlock's scent and mold. A television was propped on a milk crate, but it would have little use—it seems Sherlock had broken the screen in a fit of pique. To my left the small kitchen was a jumble of dirty dishes, overrun petri dishes, and a blowtorch tossed to the side. The sink dripped; a wood stained cupboards hung loosely from its hinges; the one window was dirty with prints and overlooked a lot choked in crabgrass.

The only other room was the toilet, and I dare not venture there.

One blaring conclusion: Sherlock was not well. Whatever he was doing, it was failing.

He had an unkempt nature to be sure, but this was barely livable: a mere dumping ground for things Sherlock accidently owned, even his body. There was no closets for clothes, so Sherlock's beautiful suits and disguises languished in partially unpacked suitcases, the cuff of my favorite robin's egg blue shirt of his had a stain of blood on it.

I took a step on the warped wood of the floor and gestured for Anthea to one of the two chairs at the scorched, newspaper strewn table. "Mind the skull and violin."

Anthea gingerly sat in the chair, careful to not knock the stack of forensic texts, folders of 1980 newspaper clippings, the (recently opened) violin case, and skull.

We waited.

The rumble of a car in the early morning; the silver LED headlights highlighting the walls; new finger grease stains on book jackets momentarily stark; an engine dying; a thumping up the stairs; a turning of the brass doorknob.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock cried in delight.

My brother stumbled into the door, shaking off the restraining hands of my three agents (Agent FS already escorted to ER then). Sherlock fell into my arms and attempted to kiss my cheek, but mostly ended up slobbering against my face (lips chapped).

"Hello Sherlock, dear," I replied, refusing to be embarrassed. I folded my arms around his thin cotton t-shirt, noting how his iron studded jeans hung loosely around his bony hips, (his leather belt would need another hole or two to make them fit even a bit snugly). Plastic bracelets were hung like chains from both his wrists, signs of his regular nightclub attendance. Pink needle tracks dotted his arms, all of varying dates, but the latest barely scabbed over. iPhone still in tact in this left pocket, house keys and wallet in right, and condoms and water-based lube in this back. Hair the greasy, sweaty smell of alcohol, cigarettes, cheap perfume, and dank warehouses: hadn't showered in days.

I let Sherlock cling to me, but the agents needed to be addressed. "Report."

Agent Data, a remarkable golden-eyed telepath with a voice like a gothic cathedral when she sang, answered, "CCTV spotted Darkholme checking into hotel in Soho. She suspects we're watching her, as her main place of command and residence in off Bayswater. Mutant Team Agent Feta on surveillance."

Dr. Carlton, the family medical authority at this hour, finished, "Sherlock needs to give his liver time to process the alcohol. Rest." He wrinkled his nose. "I'd recommend a shower as well. Otherwise he's unharmed at the moment. And for the record, Mycroft, I'm still in favor of that certain action for him. He is becoming worse and worse."

Ah, yes. The measure I'd ranked down to Plan 2: enter Sherlock into a rehabilitation clinic. Would it really come to that? I looked down at my brother, who had tucked his head under my chin and was falling asleep standing up.

Would a Holmes go into drug rehabilitation, a place full of nurses and doctors who would have be screened and made to understand us, on some level in any case? No great intellect should be reduced to this.

"Thank you, Dr. Carlton, Agent Data. You are dismissed for the night."

The group of agents nodded and left, locking the door behind them.

"Water, I think, Anthea," I said over my shoulder to her. To Sherlock, "Let us retire to your sofa."

"I don't need to retire, Mycroft. I've only started," Sherlock hiccupped, but ambled over to sofa with little prodding. He bulldozed through the mess as if it never was, while I attempted to pick my way through. Sherlock reached the sofa and waited, tapping his foot in impatience. With understanding, I sat on the leftmost corner of the sofa, and he smiled down at me before laying down, his head on my lap: a familiar position, one that had meant comfort and brotherhood since infancy.

Perhaps there was one benefit to inebriation. With his aim at eliminating emotion, a sober Sherlock would never allow this, would have never (attempted to) kiss me in greeting. Once, yes. But recently, no. He nuzzled his unwashed head into my stomach, and I, ignoring any worries about potential stains upon my suit or fingers, began stroking the top of his head. He practically purred.

"I caught you Raven Darkholme," Sherlock mumbled. "Did you see? I knew her as soon as I saw her."

"While your powers of deduction are impressive, Ms. Darkholme did not need catching, brother dear. She has been under surveillance since her arrival at Gatwick, and only tonight gave the British government a reason to do more. I cannot arrest her for speaking with people, though perhaps I must now ask her to leave on the grounds she proffered Mutant Serum without being a medical professional or filling out the necessary paperwork."

There was a beat of silence as Sherlock took this in.

He grumbled, sour and petulant, "So you can arrest her."

I sighed. "I will send her a deportation notice, but entirely eliminating Ms. Darkholme would call upon forces I do not want to deal with, mainly Magneto. They're very attached to one another, and if Mr. Lensherr was in greater health, I have no doubt he would be escorting Ms. Darkholme on her recruiting mission. The Americans consulted me personally on the design of the plastic cage he was confined in, and yet he escaped."

"You gave him a chess set. Why did you give him a chess set?"

"He enjoys—how did you know?"

"Mmmmm….last Christmas he sent you a bottle of wine with a note. You had the bottle hidden away in your cupboard, but I noticed it in an instant. His love of chess with Charles Xavier is infamous in Mutant circles."

"Your water, sir," Anthea interrupted. "I also found this bread." She had waded towards us with a cup of water and a loaf of sourdough bread, bought not three days ago. So Sherlock did still possess some foresight.

"Thank you Anthea. If you would also arrange some cleaners—"

"No cleaners!" Sherlock protested, sitting up to glare at Anthea. "Everything is to remain exactly as it is. I know where everything is in a moment!"

"But Sherlock, surely—"

"Do not play mother, Mycroft," he spat, turning to me. "Or I'll buy you a dress."

I quirked an eyebrow at this odd threat, but Sherlock's gaze was steady. "Do you object to food delivery then? Just to stock up on edible things you can later feed to your mold collections."

"I thought you would never ask," he huffed, satisfied. He went back down again, but I could feel the strop coming. Anthea placed the bread and water on the coffee table and began texting an order to Tesco delivery. I returned my hand to Sherlock's hair.

We sat in silence for a moment. I shifted from under him. I first must address the symptoms. "Sherlock, you should drink some to alleviate any potential headache."

Sherlock rolled over and shot a hand to grip the water glass. He downed it in one. "Sherlock, for pity's sake, it's not a shot—"

In response, he stuffed the bread in his mouth, tearing off chunk after chunk with his teeth. I watched in silence, noting this new savageness. When Sherlock had finished, he said, "There. Now shut up and let me sleep."

I felt my own ire rising. He was being irresponsible. "I'm going to clean up this flat while you sleep."

Anthea's audible sigh at our ridiculousness was drowned out by Sherlock's protesting squawk. "No!"

"Sherlock—"

"Mycroft!" he practically shouted. He sat up and maneuvered into sitting on the couch with his legs crossed. He pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes, a historical image of distress. This was what I wanted: to push him to reveal to me what was wrong, what was pushing him to act in this irresponsible manner, what his goal was.

There was silence for thirty seconds, in which Sherlock's face, half-blocked by his hands, flickered like a camera lens with snapshots of telltale emotions, control racing after. One last push to break down the any walls. "Sherlock, I'm—"

"Leave me alone, Mycroft!" he snapped, hands coming down. "You don't know how difficult—Scotland Yard will give me puzzles and murders, now. At least one Detective Inspector will, but it isn't _enough_. Everything's too raw, too blinding. I can't shut it _off_. It's driving me mad. Morphine, depressants only temporarily do the trick. They disappear my dreams. You must—you must help me, brother. Give me something." He lunged forward in emotion, gripping my collar. "Please, give me something to create blessed silence."

I looked at his face: the light stubble on his cheeks, the pale pallor, the wide, manic brightness of his grey eyes. Was my brother letting me back in? Was his project, rather a _lack_ of project?

"I'll think on it," I replied carefully. I didn't know what Sherlock meant and I didn't know what exactly I could offer.

"Oh, thank you, thank you," Sherlock sighed into my face. Alcohol minted his breath, claimed it. He pecked me on the cheek with great accuracy then previously. "You'll make the pain go away."

"I'll try my best."

"Your best or your _best_?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward impossibly more to nuzzle into my neck. "I know the difference."

"I refuse to discuss this further while you're inebriated and smelling like a common street bum. You may not even remember this conversation in the morning."

Sherlock looked at me full in the face, a serious expression on his face. I know he was deducing me now, somehow cognizant enough to do so. "A difficult science report has come your way. They're asking for something you're unwilling to part with."

"That is classified information."

"Ooo, you really don't like it."

"A successful test will substantially change Britain's standing."

Sherlock cocked his head. "Mutants?"

I said nothing.

"Ah," he smiled. The normal Sherlock was returning, or I was at least seeing a flash of it. "It does seem to be the theme for tonight."

"Would you consent to a wash now?" I wrinkled my nose for effect. "You do smell."

"Tell me about this project. For it to be about mutants, it must also involve humans."

I abruptly stood and Sherlock reeled backwards and I caught him by the collar. "Shower."

The rest of the night was spent with Sherlock in a strop. My suit was ruined between wrestling Sherlock under the shower's spray and forcing juice and the Chinese takeaway Anthea ordered down this throat. The suit would have to be taken to the cleaner's.

Sherlock tried to pry more secrets about Baskerville's project from me, but I refused. He would want to meddle in it, and I already had Richard Brooke doing that for me. The man acted as the government's liaison with the Baskerville scientists and had put numerous pressures in his report suggesting human testing be commenced as soon as possible.

Though he could be a little pushy, Brooke was a top man.

The next morning I received a call from Father.

"I got your email." he said, his voice gruff and his manner to the point, as usual.

"You asked to be notified."

"This has to stop, Mycroft. It's unacceptable in a Holmes."

"Understood, Father."

"I want him fixed, and I want you to use all the resources you have available to do it. And soon. Immediately."

"Sherlock has reached out to me and I have some tentative plans—"

"No, you don't understand. You can't say 'tentative.' He needs you _now_ or the next time he goes out, he'll end up in the hospital. You need to take care of him, Mycroft. Keep your eyes on him."

"I have all possible eyes on him, Father. Much more, and he will notice, and he hates my surveillances—"

"Don't beat around the bush, Mycroft, and do something!"

I should have taken his advice.

I left my brother sleeping in the morning, leaving a note that I would be in touch later that evening.

Sherlock woke alone and shot up enough morphine to cease his brain functions and stop his heart for a full three minutes.

He was in rehab the next day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry, it's late! It was a bit of a rough weekend for me and I lost track of the time.**

* * *

Chapter 3

USA Starfleet Research & Technology Offices Basement; Project Khan; Stardate: 2259

"What I don't understand, is why all tech people are so allergic to sunlight," Tim complained as we walked downward. "I mean, it seems like half of the Science Officers need to take Vitamin D supplements."

"Harry goes out," I replied. "I think it's just less distracting down here. Everyone else doesn't want to go this far underground, so they can actually get their work done and not have people bothering them with computer problems every 5 seconds."

"'Have you turned it on and off'" Tim mimed. Even though he was behind me, I could tell he was using finger quotes. "Every bloody time, they just say that. Like I don't _know_ how a computer's on switch works."

"Well, not everyone has a symbiotic relationship with their tablet, Tim, even in this day and age. Some people can't hack the tech."

We reached the bottom of the stairwell, and I pushed the door open to Harry's office hallway. I was vibrating with excitement: Detective Dimmock had responded positively to getting some of the blood samples for archive records, as well as running them through DNA tests. We had our family line, and the descendants had agreed to meet with us. Captain Kirk, still recovering in the hospital under the careful eyes of his doctors, wouldn't even be ready for an interview until next week. To top it off, Harry had promised a status update on the tech front with something big. Our investigation was going swimmingly.

For some reason, Tim found going to Harry's office disagreeable though. He'd been complaining a lot, even tried staying behind. But that was silly: I would just have to repeat to him everything Harry said later. And he and Harry got on splendidly: it wasn't like he was objecting to seeing her, just to go to her office. She was the right mix of extrovert and introvert to understand the both of us. We were all a team.

We walked down the bare, white hallway, the hum of equipment soft from behind the walls. Harry's office was as temporary as mine, so instead of having a brass plate with her name, it was just a paper stuck on with tape. I knocked once and almost immediately heard her holler to come in.

I opened the door, "Hello Harry—what on earth have you done?"

My mouth dropped open. Harry's office was larger than mine, complete with a standard issue desk, home computer, and guest chair. Beyond this little area, a workbench and various types of freestanding lamps were supposed to serve as a hardware design area, a screen partially obscuring the space to give the illusion of two rooms. The existence of these things was normal. What was not normal was the small ocean of computer guts strewn _all over her floorspace _and the _small mountain _of tablets, laptops, and desktop computers stacked in the corners.

"Oh god," Tim gulped. "This may or may not be my worst nightmare."

"If you're going to say these hurtful things when you come to my office, why do you even bother?" Harry chuckled without looking up. Her dirty blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail, and dust and sweat speckled her pointed face. Her bug-like magnification goggles just made her look stranger as she sat on a stool next to her workbench, carefully examining the tiny innards of a 21st century USB stick, light plastic gloves prodding it carefully.

"Sorry, um, is it all right if we come in? I see you've cleared some sort of path, but…" There was a vaguely clear area that led from her workbench to her desk.

"Just get your bookish arses over here, and don't step on anything."

Tim squeaked a bit, but we picked our way to Harry. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him pale as his gaze roved the room, taking in the computers split open like burst grapes. Then it hit me: Tim loved his tablet and his tech, but he liked it clean and…put together. Not torn apart like this. Maybe that was the problem? I thought I understood a bit. After the explosion, I found I had a new appreciation for things that were whole. I didn't know what to do about this information though.

"So, Harry," I said when we reached her. "Whatcha got for us?"

Harry glanced up, her blue eyes grossly enormous through the goggles, revealing the hidden brown streaks in her iris.

"Whoa," Harry said. "Someone put on lip gloss today." She turned back to the USB stick. "Is it that strawberry flavor I was telling you about?"

"Chocolate-covered strawberry."

"Can we get on with this?" Tim interrupted. He was standing close behind me, peering over my shoulder at Harry's work. "What have you found, Watson?"

"Keep your knickers on, Howards." She put her goggles on her forehead for a moment and frowned at him. "Seriously, what's been bugging you up?"

"Why was it necessary for you to dismantle an entire division of Starfleet computers? Including those found on starships?" he retorted, though with not much venom.

Harry glanced at me and quirked an eyebrow. I had to think of something: we had so much to celebrate! I said, "All right, we're having a team meeting at the pub later."

"Americans call them bars," Harry corrected. "And will Starfleet be paying for this venture or will you be once again making yourself poor?"

"I don't know: it doesn't matter. We found our family line, Harry." I felt like floating, despite Tim's gloom. Maybe…. "Tim, if you would really rather stay outside…." I shouldn't be so callus: Tim was in obvious distress. "I'm sorry."

There was a beat of silence before, "Yes, actually. I'll, ah, pack things for the trip."

Tim scampered out in a flash of black hair, somehow still avoiding Harry's computer debris. When the door snapped closed, Harry rounded on me, "Okay, what's his problem?"

I frowned, worried. I said softly, "It's the computers. I think he doesn't like seeing broken things."

"What, like he's got a PTSD trigger?"

I ran a hand through my hair. "Something like that, I suppose."

"So…. You've suddenly got anger management issues—that outburst at Spock got a bit legendary, may I say—and Tim…doesn't like my office?" Harry turned to fully face me, real sadness in her eyes, her hands coming to rest on her thighs. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. Our work place was smashed. You'd think that we'd be pleased." I was smiling again, attempting humor. My happiness at our investigative lead was not to be squelched.

Harry grinned a little ruefully. "Shoulda done it when we had the chance."

I smiled a bit back and let the warmth settle back in. "Anyway, what are you doing with all this? You said it was important."

Harry swiveled back to her table and snapped her goggles back on. She gestured to the mess of a room. "Before me you have every single computer Admiral Marcus's_ USS_ _Vengeance_ crew regularly used in the last three years. I've commandeered them to see if there's any physical evidence left of any Archive altering procedures. The Feds have already found the files that pertain to Marcus's plans at militarizing Starfleet and have graciously given me free reign."

"Mmmmmhmmm," I replied. 'Graciously given' was Harry Watson code for 'I begged for, borrowed, and eventually stole this.'

"So I've been looking through lots of Internet and database histories and then checking to make sure the memory hardwares haven't been altered to hide anything, which is why everything's spilt eggs over here. The results were pretty standard—lots of research searches, emails, and a few het porn sites. Nothing even remotely titillating, mind you."

"Harry," I said, trying to be stern, but a smile creeping in. "Focus."

She smirked at me, before continuing, "There was some evident digging into military procedures and weapons, but it was redundant to having their actual plans on the subject. That's when I noticed the curious thing."

"What?"

"There was no mention of Khan."

"What?" I repeated, feeling stupid. "Do you mean John Harrison or—"

"Oh he was in there. In fact, that computer over there is his." She pointed to a computer suspending from the ceiling by cables, its mangled electrical wires dangling out like snakes. Revulsion squirmed in my stomach, and I was surprised Harry hadn't smashed it to pieces.

"No, no, the actual word 'Khan' was nowhere to be found," Harry said, drawing me back to the present. "We knew Archives had been gutted, but it seems they also wiped the entire Starfleet Network of him, even their own files."

My heart almost skipped beats. "Do you suppose they printed out their info before doing so? We might be able to search Marcus's belongings, his house—"

"Let me finish my spiel and then you can go crazy," Harry shushed, her smile broadening. "I had to sit through some 1550s monastic-themed porn for this."

I nearly choked. "You _what_—"

"Everyone has their kinks," Harry said and turned to take my hand, patting it in a placating manner. "It's a free world."

I put my free hand over my face. "Can you please get to the point, Harry, for the love of nebulas."

She tugged at my hand, and I followed. She bent over the USB stick on the table, and I leaned in close to get a look. Releasing my fingers, she poked at old machinery.

"There are many, many ways to erase files, but only a few ways to erase certain words. Marcus erased the _word_ 'Khan' and all related clauses from the Archives. He didn't erase all of our historical files on the 2010s, just the ones related to Khan Noonien Singh. And the easiest way to do that is a virus."

I bit my lip to follow her line of thinking. "So he created a virus that ran through the Starfleet Network and deleted only files containing the words Khan Noonien Singh."

"Not the files," Harry reprimanded. "The sentences. He erased him from history, but not the history itself. And he did it using old tech—they literally used up the memory of this USB stick with this complicated virus and stuck it in a computer connected to the Starfleet Network."

"Why use old tech? Where'd they find a computer that uses 21st century sticks?"

"No one looks for old tech," Harry said, her smile fading a bit. "People think it's always going to be the latest and greatest. They could have built a 2010 computer or bought it off a collector. It hardly matters now."

"Why?"

"They destroyed it. Marcus's people had 30 servers connected to the Star Net. Two years ago, for a day, the record shows them having 31 connected."

"Maybe it was a home computer they'd brought it, not necessarily this 2010 one."

Harry shrugged and took off her goggles. "Who the hell doesn't rig up their home computers with the Star Net the minute they get a job? It's the fastest and vastest Net on Earth. Literally."

Harry turned to face me, but must have forgotten I was right here already. I swallowed. Harry wasn't unattractive. She smelled like hot oatmeal and cinnamon, had clear skin from being underground, plum lips, and intoxicating eyes with brains to match. I could feel the heat coming off her we were so close, but I could also see she looked tired: there were light gray circles under her eyes, her skin was pale from being down here all the time.

But I didn't have a chance with her and I didn't want to spoil the friendship we already had. Harry _liked_ being single: the variety, the flirting, the catch. _Everyone has a life story_, I'd heard her say once after a few drinks, _and I like to hear, feel a little of it_. And she was completely safe about it. I'd once had to hold her purse and was mortified to discover its amble supply of condoms, lube, birth control, and morning after pills.

The moment of looking into each other's faces suspended between us until my cheeks grew red in embarrassment. "Ah," I stuttered. "Do you think this means the other Archivists can stop double checking everything?"

The moment broke as I intended, and Harry looked away. She twiddled with the stick a bit. "Marcus could have had multiple viruses, or changed something out of pure vanity. Just to be safe, I would continue the project. It'll keep us all employed until they build a new office."

I backed away to rest against the wall, letting it support my weight. "Well, I'll tell Asif in any case." Then I smiled. "This is amazing work, Harry. I love it. It must have taken forever."

Harry grunted. "Well, it's certainly why I haven't seen been out in a bit."

Right. Time to do something for the team. Tonight would be party of a meeting.

I stepped forward and put a hand on Harry's shoulder. She stilled. "You've done an excellent job. Thank you." I paused, a bit unsteady. "If you like, you can take some time off, you know. Going through all this was a huge project and can't have been easy. Or you can keep poking at that stick to see if it twitches."

I felt her smile. "And let you and Tim have all the fun? Never. Those blood samples are due soon, yeah?"

"They came in," I smiled. "It's huge lead. They were able to trace the family line. The descendent is in New York City."

"Only one?" Harry asked. "What are they like?"

"I know absolutely nothing about them," I sighed, happy. "Besides that they're related to a three hundred year old augmented human. I'm hoping they've kept family records or stories or at the very least a tree of some sort."

"What's the name again?" Harry was still twiddling with the USB, but I could tell she was pleased.

"Holmes," I breathed, enamored at the prospect. "The descendant's this fellow called Sherlock."

Harry dropped the USB like it was on fire and practically threw her goggles across the room as she swiveled towards me, stricken.

"Are you taking the piss? His name is _Sherlock Holmes?"_

I frowned. "Yes? Their family hopped about in mostly England and France before coming to America right near our time period of interest."

"You're serious," Harry said, mouth still flabbergasted. "The name's Holmes?"

"What on earth is wrong, Harry? Do you know him?"

"_Know _him?" Harry scoffed. "I beat the snot out of him every year until I was fourteen. You have to take me with you on this trip: it'll be a delight." She was beaming, which for Harry meant a good time and a lot of trouble afterward. Marking my confusion, she explained. "The Holmes and Watson families go way back. That bloke's practically my brother. Oh!" She clapped her hand. "Joan must be with him, the little devil. I am actually related to her."

"The records didn't mention—a wife—"

"Nah, she's like his…" she mulled for a word. "Handler? Platonic life partner? Nanny?"

It was then that it hit her, the full implications of it. Her face crumpled, and I wanted to take her and Tim out to get smashed more than ever. "Shit, we're related to a mass murderer, aren't we?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Eek, I completely lost track of time on this! I'm sorry! My mother had foot surgery, so I've been taking care of her among other things. With this chapter, we complete our gambit of POVs: it will now rotate between Aria, BBC!Mycroft, and BBC!Sherlock. I hope you enjoy and please leave a review to tell me if you do or don't!**

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Chapter 4

Central London; Stardate: 2010

If I was bored and annoyed and utterly forced, I would say winter was my favorite season. January, especially this January, agreed with me considerably. The discreet Rehabilitation Clinic had finally caught on and seen fit to release me in time for ice to form on their windows, for handprints against the glass to make circles of melting warmth. I had fully stalked the Clinic's grounds during my stay, and the air was just now biting, snow about to break from the eternally grey clouds. It would be a mild winter, and studies on the interaction of blood and snow crystals would be possible without entirely freezing.

But then again, I hoped Mycroft would provide something more in the way of distraction that would not necessitate the distraction of experiments. I had extracted a promise from him six months ago, and, using my own life as leverage again if need be, he would fulfill it.

The driver—two elementary school children, a baby on the way, domestic partnership—was taking me to Mycroft now. London's subtle grey, black, and white tones were in full icy display, the sheer warmth of huddled concrete warding off any potential snow experiments. Pity.

The black vehicle was just turning into Central London. I sighed. Of course he didn't bother to redirect traffic. He wanted to punish me slightly, no doubt. Or "give me time to think it over." I had six months to think it over, and this was what I wanted. This would end all boredom and ennui. It would provide distraction. Interesting detective cases were too far and few between in a country with such a low murder rate; it was intolerable to live anywhere else; Scotland Yard was too slow on the uptake that I was useful. Only Greg Lestrade had realized it, but only did so reluctantly. How long would it have taken them to realize? Too long. I needed work _now_.

Surprisingly, rehab had not been entirely dull. It had been difficult to tame a body so used to chemical stimulation. The wide parks provided many naturalist observations. There had been a wild colony of bees.

But the body was under control once again, and it was time for Mycroft to fulfill his promise.

I wrapped my Belstaff coat closer and turned up the collar. It was plenty warm in the soft, leather interior of car—Mycroft had a taste for fine things—but we were nearing Whitehall. The driver merely twitched the car closer to the curb and with a curt nod at his concerned face in the rearview mirror, I was out and shutting the door behind, watching the car rejoin the slow river of vehicles.

Anthea—though her name was something different now—approached. She hadn't been waiting long: she was in a beige wool suit with hardly a shiver and her Blackberry, for once, was out of sight.

"Welcome back, Mr. Holmes," Anthea greeted with a sideways glance. She was watching the car disappear as well. "If you would follow me, sir."

She abruptly turned, and I followed as she gracefully stepped from the street and flashed a card at a side door. A security guard opened it, and we slipped in without anyone noticing.

Security let us pass unmolested, and Anthea led me on to Mycroft's office—his _real_ office, the one hidden downstairs and fit his "minor government official" cover. I was pleased. This meant he was indeed taking me seriously.

Our footsteps sunk in the thick blue carpeting, and cameras swiveled at us from every corner. Time to gather any last ammunition: "What is your name now, Anthea?"

"Joy," she stated, not even looking at me. "For the holidays."

"I suppose 'Peace on Earth' would be a little strange." She was silent. My attempts at humor needed work. "Do you know if there is any sort of time limit on my brother's meeting with me?"

"Mr. Holmes has cleared his whole schedule for you," Joy said tersely.

Meaning he had ousted more work on his underlings no doubt. My visit was not a welcome but a tense occasion. Yet Joy did not have anything planned later tonight—anyone working in that uncomfortable of heels did not have plans to go out once the work day was finished.

"Ah," I said. "I apologize."

"There's no need," Joy replied, her voice clearing of emotion. She was back to being professional. I can't have ruffled too many of Mycroft's feathers if forgiveness came this easily—her plans later would only involve herself.

We had arrived. Joy gestured me towards Mycroft's office door.

With a click, I entered.

Mycroft was sitting at his desk, hands together and thinking, computer shifted to the side. A chair had been brought down, one of those large, plush leather ones (my brother did have a tendency towards leather). The office, besides for a waste paper basket in the corner, was bare as usual. This was where Mycroft came to avoid distractions, to actually work.

"Brother dear," Mycroft said, standing to greet me. "It is good to see you well."

"You are overworked as usual, Mycroft." Out of affection (my heart did swell a little to see my relation after so long an absence) and to disarm him slightly, I ignored Mycroft's outstretched hand and embraced him, pecking him on the cheek as I did so. He was indeed thinner, had lost some pounds, in fact. His face, so carefully designed to intimidate and negotiate, was not the picture of health. The skin under his eyes was puffy, there was a splotch of hair product more than necessary, his suit was a hair wrinkled. Small signs, but clear evidence of unrest.

Mycroft did return the embrace, but only perfunctorily. The warm greeting had the intended effect: Mycroft always seemed a tad out of step with brotherly affection—it softened him—as if he always expected resentment and shouting in their place. But I wanted something entirely different.

Mycroft sat down a little robotically, and I perched on the leather guest chair, waiting for his opening move.

"I trust the journey here was uneventful?"

"Extremely. Did you know your driver will soon require additional monies in his pension account? He and his partner are using a surrogate to add to their brood."

Mycroft dipped his head in thanks. "I have not driven with Mr. Owens recently, so I did not. Thank you for the notice. I will tell Joy to prepare congratulations."

This was us dancing around the real point of this meeting. Mycroft was assessing, gathering data. The gentle light from his eyes was really breaking me apart. People didn't object as much to Mycroft deducing things from them. When I did it, they were unnerved. Mycroft seemed gentler to them, but far more ruthless with his conclusions. He would hide them until they became useful, could hurt the most. When I wasn't trying to impress Mycroft like today, I would spill them out and most likely get slapped for my honest pains.

Mycroft glanced at his computer. His assessment was finished.

"Did it ever occur to you, brother," I said into the quiet, "that we belong on the same side?"

Mycroft huffed, "We are on the same side, but you do not need to be in this capacity."

I steepled my fingers. "Do you not trust me?"

"It's not a matter of trust, it's a matter of maturity."

I quirked an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting I am too young?"

"Though you were just released from rehabilitation, you are ever the addict, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "Employment under me would just feed your addiction."

"I doubt you of all people would give me recreational drugs."

"No: the work. You need it like you so recently needed a needle. But this would be more rigorous than you can imagine. It would be the most challenging alternative. I hardly think imposing yourself on a government experiment is the best thing—"

"Then, I'll wait. Assign me something to prove my worth. As long as it's constant."

"You would have to through extensive training to even be considered for Operation Jimmy Cricket."

I smirked. "I suppose some imbecile in Public Relations chose that name and not you."

Mycroft put a hand on his face in exasperation. "It was the head scientist. She is rather fond of American Disney films, unfortunately."

A pause. I knew I had won at some level. I was in, but I needed more information. "You could at least tell me the details of the project I'm under consideration for."

God, it was like extracting teeth from a child: why couldn't he just tell me? Mycroft huffed again. "The Operation is based in Baskerville, a government research facility located in Dartmoor." He reached into the drawers of his desk, pulled out a folder, and threw it over to me. I took it, but didn't look at it. "It utilizes the Super Solider Serum to create our own British line of them."

I tsked. "So the public knowledge that the formula for Captain America's powers cannot be replicated is false."

"Britain was allied with America at the time. Did you imagine we would let a thing so precious slip through our fingers?"

"What's the catch?" I asked. "Surely, you're not being so reckless as to create an army of super-powered men? And testorone-high soldiers, no less. Possibly the worst sort of candidates for this sort of thing. Have you met the men in the Royal Army? I wouldn't trust them as far as I could throw them."

"Certainly not." Mycroft conceded. "They kill people for money, and Britain is not the highest bidder for that sort of thing."

"Must watch our vigilantism. No everyone's as kind as Spiderman," I replied wryly. I brought the folder close and slipped it into my jacket for further examination later.

"Indeed." Mycroft agreed. A flash of a smile formed, but was quickly doused. I would need to coax it out. "So I have thought of a solution."

"And this is?"

"Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Even I have my limits. The Super Soldier Serum, as we have developed it, enhances every muscle in the body, including the brain. The subject's life is considerably elongated, their recuperative powers advanced, and this runs the risk of people becoming drunk on power, going rogue, and being a very large problem for a very long time. We have developed a control factor."

"What? Something to take away their powers when they're vile?"

"Something much more permanent: a partner."

This was unexpected, and my eyes widened at this turn. "Explain."

"Every subject will have a pairing partner. The second will be slightly augmented as well—longer life, healing abilities, minimal strength enhancement—but their main power will be acting as a moral compass for the other."

I frowned. "I don't understand."

"To put it bluntly, it will be like giving them their own personal god. Anything this person says will have a great deal of weight with the solider subject. Their brain waves will be synced as if they were the oldest, most true of friends. It's a bit like inducing love." I felt my face pale as Mycroft continued. "For example, if the soldier subject wishes to destroy a building, but the moral subject tells them this would be wrong, the solider subject cannot do it without disastrous emotional and mental harm."

"And if you control the moral subject…"

"We control the soldier."

"Your collateral is already built in. Besides the fact that you would be irrevocably chaining one person to another, that is very neat."

"All participants would be made very aware of this, and we do not plan to make many of these units."

I tilted my head in thought. "How many?"

"The number is still up for debate. My liaison with the Baskerville scientists is garnering support for a larger number then I am entirely comfortable with. Then again, we are short on volunteers for testing. Understandably."

"This would vastly change Britain's military position in the world. The Unities States is helter skelter with its heroes, despite S.H.I.E.L.D. With this, you would have a controllable army at your beck and call."

"With Norse aliens able to drop on our doorstep at a moment's notice, I thought it would be wise to prepare."

"You'll keep it hidden as long as possible, however."

"Of course."

Silence settled. "What kind of work did you have in mind for these units, if there's no war?"

"Investigative Circus missions, mostly. With their enhanced brains, I'm positive they would be excellent with computers, development research, or in the field, if they were so inclined. The Arab and Asian regions are…tenuous. It would do some good to have someone on the ground there. They'll be revolutions soon."

"How very James Bond," I commented, dryly. Mycroft had encouraged me to watch the Bond films when I was seven as part of my 'cultural education.' This work would be exciting. It would never cease. My brain—no matter what these enhancements would do to it—would have a constant supply of problems, puzzles, and excitement.

Mycroft could see these thoughts run through me. "Sherlock, you do realize…. You would never be alone. Your very nature would disallow it. Someone, someone out there existing at this very moment completely unaware of your being, would be bound to you. You would biologically be forced to care for them. You would…. You would almost never feel physical pain again, unless in connection with this person."

Mycroft looked sad at his words, his face downturning, his shoulders slumped. He was leaning back in his chair, a hand stretched out to the side, his fingers rubbing together in thought.

I realized: "Father has been pressuring you to 'fix' me through this program while Mummy dislikes it intensely."

"It's been a very long six months, Sherlock."

"I apologize."

"Mummy wishes you to be better though. I'm sure you received her flowers."

"Yes."

There was nothing really more to think. Mycroft had promised me work. With this sort of Operation, I could travel the world, be useful, have constant stimulation. And the idea of a companion would be put up with—perhaps it wouldn't be necessary for them to be physically near me. They would only be an occasional controlling force, and I doubted I would need to be controlled much if Mycroft was the one giving orders. I trusted my brother to not have me do anything dull or stupid. I would be free and gratifying my brother. I would be hardly human, but I would never to bored.

"I'll do it."

"I pray it goes well, brother. You begin training tomorrow. And do please read that folder."


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello! Are you ready for some Elementary/Star Trek?**

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Chapter 5

USA Starfleet Archival Division; Project Khan-Research Trip to New York City; Stardate: 2259

"This is like London," Tim said, "except the tube is dirtier and more people seem ready to stab me to death for pocket change."

"There's a higher violent crime rate and armed Federation police, but less Cornish pasties shops," Harry chuckled. "And less accents."

"If you would," I said, rolling my eyes. "This is our stop."

The train doors rattled opened, and we squeezed our way through the crowd to the exit. The hulking mass of rush hour traffic moved like spilled sludge towards the exits, bodies pressed close and sweating in the heat. Harry put a hand on my shoulder to keep us from being shifted apart. I was immensely grateful, though her hand was sticky with sweat which threatened to seep through my uniform. I didn't really like crowds and knew next to nothing about New York—getting lost would be terrible and make us late for our meeting with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.

We were finally manhandled and herded to the open air. I sighed and almost choked on the humidity. I blinked upwards to the muggy, clouded sky, the skyscrapers' usual brilliance dulled and melancholic. It was so hot, you'd think the sidewalks would liquefy.

"Which way now, Harry?" I asked. She knew where Mr. Holmes lived and had promised to lead us there.

She let go of my shoulder and walked ahead, Tim and I following. There were a few shops around, customers coming in and out. The movement of the doors let wisps of the shops' precious air conditioning out, swirling around our ankles. My sweaty fingers slipped on the strap of my bag, the tablet and sensors jostling inside. Since this was an official visit, everyone had to be in their uniforms: Tim was sweating it in his trousers and polyester red Yeoman shirt, I was worried over sweating through the armpits of my dress uniform and cursing my regulation boots, and Harry, meanwhile, had on her red Technician uniform that clung to her in all the right places. Life wasn't fair.

We passed out of the shops and into a more residential neighborhood. The crowd thinned to people walking their dogs or riding bikes, all wearing as little clothing as possible to beat the heat. Trees nearly dwarfed the flat complexes, and their green foliage provided some much needed shade. This would have been even more appreciated if there wasn't a slight incline.

"Here we are," Harry said cheerfully, pointing to a brownstone. "The berk's home too."

"How-how can you tell?" I wheezed. Perhaps I should exercise more. Starfleet healthcare plans did come with gym membership.

"Well, he's staring at us out his window for one."

"Oh god," I muttered, straightening. I wiped sweat off my brow and smoothed my skirt. "Tim, your glasses are all smudged. Here." I abruptly took them off and wiped them on the edge of my skirt before Tim could splutter protests.

"Oi! Bugger! Are you going to let us in?" Harry shouted. She was bouncing with excitement up the steps, knocking on the door. Harry hadn't told me many details about her extended family, just that she didn't see them very often. Most of them lived in America. I guess she missed them more than I thought. I knew it was only her and her parents in London: she had a little brother once, but he had died in infancy when Harry was only two.

As Tim and I made it to the top of the concrete steps, a pretty Asian woman opened the door. I bit my lips: she was _gorgeous_. Her skin looked delicate, like stretched, creamy paper. Ebony hair flowed down and her matching dark eyes crinkled into a smile. Stong-looking legs and muscular arms were partially hidden under loose clothing that draped around her thin body. Even more interesting, her poise seemed to emanate a strange power, almost like command. I instantly wanted to look up to her, to trust she knew what was going on. She'd make an excellent starship captain.

"Joan!" Harry cried, tackling her into a hug. "It's been ages!"

"Harry!" she smiled back, hugging back. "It has been awhile hasn't it?"

"Since Sherly had only three tattoos! He must have more by now."

"Harriet," came a stern voice from inside the building. "I would appreciate it if you would _not_ use that terrible nickname in my presence. Or elsewhere for that matter."

The door widened to reveal a very brown man who had neglected to wear a shirt. Sleeves of tattoos covered both arms, almost to his wrists. His chest hair matched the ones on his smooth, potato-shaped head: the color of pecans. He also looked very solid, though his quick movements as he batted away Harry's attempt to peck him on the cheek told of a different personality. While Joan held a natural sense of leadership and trust, Mr. Holmes looked like he would demand it from you, whether you wanted to give it or not.

"If you would," he said, going into an annoyed pout, "come inside. You'll find it much more refreshing, and your co-workers look like they're about to turn into puddles."

I couldn't smother an embarrassed blush as I was herded inwards to the living room, bypassing some stairs. The room looked supernaturally clean, the books in the shelves dusted and ordered, the floor recently vacuumed. But the air conditioning was a Godsend. I licked my lips once and smoothed my skirt again to wipe the sweat of my hands. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, thank you. My name is Archivist Aria Hooper and this is my assistant Tim Howards. We spoke on the phone about Project Khan." I held out a hand to shake, but realized Mr. Holmes had already disappeared to the kitchen.

Dr. Watson shook my hand and smiled. "Please call me Joan. And sit, sit." She waved to the blood red couch in the corner of the room. "Sherlock's getting us drinks."

I smiled back and sat tentatively on the couch. Tim sat down next to me, plunking next to my bag, Harry on my other side, eagerly looking around. I closed my eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.

"I told Harriet to not take you on the tube," Mr. Holmes said, reappearing with glasses full of what looked to be ice tea on a tray. "Much too noisy and distracting."

Harry stuck out her tongue. "Like you would know, taking cars and cabs everywhere." She looked to Joan. "He still does that right?"

"Or he commandeers a trash truck," Joan said, rolling her eyes. "It's a problem we're dealing with."

Mr. Holmes huffed and started passing out drinks. There wasn't a coffee table, so we just had to hold them, letting the cool glass sweat across our fingers. It was nice in comparison with outside. But I should speak, get the ball rolling, begin building rapport so they would let us see—

"If New York insists on having uncooperative weather, then I shall be forced to accommodate in whatever manners suits," Mr. Holmes replied to Harry. He sat down on the armchair opposite us while Joan sat on another.

"How have you been, besides the weather?" Harry said before I could ask anything. "I want full and complete answers."

Joan's smile quirked, and she glanced at Mr. Holmes. "The consulting business is good. There's been a few interesting cases this week."

"Are you allowed to tell?"

"I will perhaps afterward," Mr. Holmes said. "I'm sure Ms. Hooper is eager to look at our family records."

I began, "I would love to—"

"Come on, Sherly, I'm not letting you off that easy: it's been ages! How's your wife!" Harry interrupted.

But Mr. Holmes was again darting out of the room and reappearing with a cardboard box. "My wife is perfectly all right without your interfering, Harriet. And she is not in at the moment."

Maybe I didn't' need to say anything. But I should speak a little before poking into these people's pasts. "Is this Mrs. Irene Holmes?"

Both Joan and Mr. Holmes stilled. Shit. I had said the wrong thing. Stumbling, I tried to cover my tracks. "Ah, the record—your public ID tapes mentioned your marriage."

They both breathed. Mr. Holmes explained, "Forgive us. It's pure instinct. My wife's work for the Federation is very covert, and often sees her away from home. She had a spot of trouble recently, so we're still on our toes, so to speak."

"I'm sorry," I replied. I didn't know what else to say.

"No matter," Mr. Holmes said. He unceremoniously dropped the box at my feet. "Here are your files, Ms. Hooper. Have fun."

"Sherlock," Joan warned.

"I want to rearrange my locks today, Watson, and these are professional archivists, I'm sure they can handle it by themselves."

"You promised you would help them," Joan reminded sternly.

"Oh, yes, fine, I'll give an introduction," he gestured, waving his hands about and through this hair. Frustration? Why was he frustrated? His brown eyes looked angry or worried.

"I can go through the files myself if you would prefer, Mr. Holmes. I wouldn't want to cause you any discom—"

"Sherly, quit being a twit to Aria. No one cares what your family did over two centuries ago and I won't love you any less," Harry interrupted again. "Now spill your history so I can listen to Joan and yours detective stories sometime before I have to go back." She sipped her ice tea in expectation, and Mr. Holmes sighed while Joan smirked.

I took a sip of my (delicious) iced tea while Mr. Holmes, with a put upon sigh, settled on the floor to open the box. Inside were stacks of thin papers, completely unorganized. I leaned forward and picked one up. It looked like receipt.

"What's this?" Tim said, reading over my shoulder. "A bill for Thai food?"

Mr. Holmes grabbed a fistful of papers and handed them to me. Receipt for a bakery-made cake, receipt for a list of vegetables, receipt for a butcher's.

"This is…" I smoothed a thumb over the paper. I smelled it and made a face. "Er, this is a box of 21st century food receipts, but," I licked a corner and was even more disgusted. "Those are infamous for their ink fading with time. Yet all these—even though they have different dates on them—" I skimmed through several, "could have been printed yesterday."

"The dates match with the years of the Eugenics War," Tim said, taking some from me. "Wait, no, a little afterwards as well."

"Meet the twisted, yet brilliant minds of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, the originals," Mr. Holmes pronounced. "My sole ancestors alive during your time period of interest who left records."

"The originals?" Tim asked.

"But you're Sherlock Holmes," I said.

Wait, I'm stupid.

"Ever since this pair, the names Mycroft, Sherlock, and Sherrinford have been family names. Each son has been given one of them, throughout the centuries."

"It's back when the Holmes and Watson clans first sort of got together," Harry added. "Someone decided this generation was really important. It's why Joanie here has a 'J' name."

I arched an eyebrow in question. Joan laughed a little. "Sherlock and Mycroft both worked in the British government."

"Mycroft _was_ the British government," Mr. Holmes corrected. "And Sherlock worked for him after giving up his brief career as a consulting detective. Which I find complete tosh. Perfectly good profession. I have no idea why he didn't stick with it. He invented it only to waste it."

"Yes, anyway," Joan continued with a sideways glance at him. "The original Sherlock Holmes was married this man named John Watson, and our families have been sort of allied ever since. The Watsons copied the Holmes's with the ancestral names thing."

"The original John Watson had a sister named Harriet," Harry said. "So here I am."

"Did John and Sherlock have children?"

"No: Mycroft did. Though he died shortly after the birth," Mr. Holmes said. "Overall the originals left little else besides their names, the basic facts of what we have just told you, this box of what looks to be tax paperwork, and a property in Sussex."

"There's the family tree," Harry insisted. "I know you have it somewhere in this house."

"A family tree which doesn't fit with your story at all."

"But I don't understand," I blinked. "How does it not fit? One of these brothers must be connected to Khan."

Holmes glanced down at the box. "Your blood sample did say that my family is somehow related to Khan Noonien Singh. In our time period, this leaves Sherlock, Mycroft, their parents, and Mycroft's son Sherrinford to be alive during the Eugenics War."

"Yes," I said slowly, not really following. "Khan is an augmented human. Mycroft worked in government: he could have had a hand in the experiments."

"Yes," Holmes said, his eyes lighting up. "But here is the curious thing."

"What?"

"All the bodies are accounted for while your Khan was frozen in ice."

"_What? _How can that be? The bloodline matched the Holmes family. Have you checked the graves?"

"There'd not be much left too check," Joan said. "It has been a two hundred years."

"What were their deaths like?" I said, not ready to give up. "Perhaps something suspicious?"

"All very messy," Holmes said. "Though we are messy people. Sherlock and John were taken out in the line of duty—that is to say, while on a mission. Mycroft was assassinated by a sniper rifle. The parents were burned to death in their Sussex manor while they slept, which is why we don't have so much have a photograph of any of them. Mycroft's wife was left to raise young Sherry." He smiled, showing teeth. "All deaths appropriately morbid and sensational to be passed on to the generations, but one's obviously faked. Unless you're suggesting a baby grew up very quickly to have a hand in a War mostly over by the time of his birth."

My mind was whirling a little. "I'm sorry."

Holmes batted his hand as if to bat away the apologies. "I never knew them."

Mind settling, I dug in the box and flit through the receipts. "Why save food receipts, though? Unless…"

"They're not receipts," Holmes said, finger touching his nose. "You've hit on it Ms. Hooper. It's a code."

"Have you broken it?" I said. This could take months for us to do on our own. Darla had been our best code breaker, and she was dead.

"Ah," said Holmes.

"_Ah?_" quoted Harry. "What does 'ah' mean?"

Behind him, Joan put a hand over her face. "It means he hasn't."

"Couldn't be bothered," he amended. "Didn't care. Much more pressing matters."

"This could be the key to finding everything out, if you give me permission to go through it," I said. My fingers were already itching. This code would take time, but it would be worth it, for more information on the public record, on Khan, on the man who had hurt so many.

"I give you full permission," Holmes said.

"And he'll help," Joan affirmed from her chair, her dark eyes glittering at the back of Holmes's head. "I could use a break from running around New York."

"And Watson can use the practice with her own code-breaking abilities."

"Thank you," I said, meaning it. . I felt my heart flutter in excitement. "When would it be most convenient for us to work?"

"We may start now if you like," Holmes said. "My deductive powers are at your disposal."

"Deductive powers?" Tim said, looking up from the receipts and scanning Holmes's face. "Are you augmented?"

"Not in the strictest sense," he said, "but close to it. I observe more carefully than the common person. The Holmes's have been able to do it for eons. Watson is a telepath though. Invaluable for our casework."

A very polite, well-trained telepath. In addition to aliens, Starfleet was full of telepaths, empaths, and other augmented humans—a much nicer term for them than "mutant," which had been used in the 21st century—and had special training programs for all of them to go through to help them control their powers. It was considered very rude for telepaths to just read everybody's mind or for empaths to muck up everyone's emotions on a whim. Joan had so kept her distance that I hadn't even noticed her ability. I had had to sit through classes on how to block hostile augmented mental or emotional probings, in case I went on a Starfleet space mission. I eventually opted out of space missions though and was assigned to the London Archives Office.

Joan came over and placed a hand on the top of Holmes' head. "I'll let Captain Gregson know that we've taken on a private case, and it looks like it's going to be a long haul. I thought I'd order pizza for lunch. Do you want your usual?" Holmes nodded, and she swiped a thumb into his hair. "What would you three like?"

I didn't particularly care, but Harry wanted pepperoni and Tim vied for mushrooms and olives. We thanked her as she walked away to the kitchen to place our order.

Harry yawned. "You still have the Star Net installed here, haven't you, Sherly? We've brought our tablets to help crunch numbers."

"If you call me Sherly one more time, I will not tell you the password."

"As if I couldn't figure it out," Harry said, reaching over my lap to dig in my bag and pull out her tablet. "It's probably 'Clyde' or something."

"_Harriet_," he reprimanded. "Cease."

"Shall we spread the receipts onto the floor?" I said, trying to maintain focus on the work. "Find some order." Holmes backed up against his armchair and dragged the box to the center of the room. I slid onto the wood floor and began sorting by predominant type of food and restaurant.

"Wait, who's Clyde?" Tim asked. Curiosity colored his voice. He sat down next to me and soon he, Holmes, and I were sorting things into neat piles.

"Sherlock's pet turtle," Harry replied, taping something into her tablet. "He's very cute when he's not being used as a paperweight."

Holmes' eyes were intent on the sorting, but he said, "I assure you no harm comes to him when he helps hold down my papers. Sorting by restaurant and predominant food type does seem the ticket, Ms. Hooper."

"You can call me Aria," I said absently, not really paying attention and instead thankful this was a code because who the hell buys 9 eggplants in one sitting.

"Please feel free to call me Sherlock. Though, as you seem the type to prefer surnames until you're close, Holmes will do as well."

I stopped, a receipt ordering two lamb shanks hanging in the air. "Pardon?"

"Sherlock," Harry growled from the couch like a bulldog. "You've been very good so far. Don't spoil it."

"Has it ever occurred to you that it is _difficult_ for me to not point out or reference the knowledge I deduce?" Holmes retorted, glaring slightly at her. "I can't turn it on or off."

"Is this deduction?" Tim asked. "You can tell things?"

His eyes settled on me. "Your parents have been dead since you were three. You grew up in an orphanage until you were old enough to be sent to boarding schools. That's from a Google search. Judging by your actions towards your team members and with Joan and I, not to mention how you are consistently subconsciously tugging at your skirt hem, you're naturally shy, but have a habit of making families out of small groups, which no doubt had aided you in the past.

"But to make families, you must have divisions, ones that can't be crossed easily—thus your habit of calling people by their surname unless you feel close to them or particularly admire them. You've been calling me 'Holmes' in your head, as you haven't slipped up once in calling me Sherlock or that Godforsaken other name, despite all others in the room using it. And I'm afraid your romantic interest in Joan is quite doomed, as she is straight as a flagpole, and my wife has already tried to seduce her on more than one occasion and failed. You may stop looking at her legs at any time."

Tim nudged me, probably in reprimand over ogling Joan. My mouth had dropped open in amazement while Harry snarled, "Stop, Sherlock."

His eyes darted to her. "But there's more and I haven't even started on Mr. Howards. They both scream volumes."

"Well, quit while you're ahead."

"That was amazing!" Tim interrupted. "Do it again!"

"I am not built for amusement," he said, though he was smiling. "And I do agree with Harriet that Aria has had quite enough."

"Just one more," Tim begged. "It was fantastic."

"I don't mind," I swallowed, finding my voice. "It was brilliant."

He glanced at me. "You're afraid of lasers."

"How did you know?" I breathed.

"Unlike with Tim, you actually need your glasses. You took off his spectacles before walking to my door, and he did not so much as squint about to find his bearings, as the oddly sighted often do when their 20/20 means are taken away. When you drew close, I confirmed this observation by noting how his lenses are not bent at all, merely thin glass. Your glasses, however, are thick and concave, which is used to treat nearsightedness.

"The only people these days who do not seek corrective eye surgery, either have no time on their hands or are afraid. You work for Starfleet, which offers yearly four week leaves, so you would have the time, which leaves you being afraid. Afraid of what aspect of the operation was the difficult part, as many medical things can be found frightening, but your position gave you away."

"My position?" I said. "My rank?" I looked down at my Starfleet ensign. It the normal Science officer uniform…?

"During my preliminary Net search of your person—Harry connected me the to the Star Net years ago, thank you for that, cousin—"

"You're welcome," she said, still a little terse. I glanced behind me and noticed her eyes following Sherlock, almost daring him to step out of line. She gripped her tablet tightly, ignoring whatever was on the screen. Were these deduction sessions usually very terrible? It was frightening certainly, but not completely insulting. He was right, after all.

"As I was saying," Holmes continued, "You received near top grades in the Academy, and have been working for Starfleet Archives for six years. You are young—27—and physically able. A prime candidate for space travel. Yet you remain on Earth, in London until recently. Your hands do not have the calluses or marks that suggest the weapons training necessary for travel—no extra practice for you—and your marksmanship scores at the Academy were just above dismal in an otherwise sparkling grade report.

"Yet you've worked hard at all your other subjects, which suggests to me that while your skill may be lacking so is your inclination. You are a woman of peace." He bowed his head at this. "This knowledge of your weapons training record and your fear of something related to eye surgery led me to your fear of lasers."

"Nebulas," I startled. "That _is_ brilliant."

Holmes beamed at me, and Tim applauded. Joan appeared in the doorway of the room and chided, "If you clap that every time he does that, you'll give him a swelled head."

"You can do me later," Tim whispered as we returned to sorting. "This project is going to be fun."


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello! As usual for this story, I lost track of time. But I want to thank everyone who has interacted with this story, either through a follow or a favorite or a review! Greyelf, PxW, & WaffleNinja are awesome peoples. Please feel free to leave a review at the end and I apologize that this chapter's rather shorter.**

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Chapter 6

London; Car Park in Central London; Stardate: 2010

Even when he was working under me, Sherlock was causing trouble.

Or rather, Sherlock's dregs.

My brother himself was happily badgering the Baskerville scientists while they slowly made him to their ideal test subject. But between rehabilitation and entering my service, he had neglected to inform his previous acquaintances of his new employment. I had given them a number, one connected to Isabel's (Anthea's) line, when Sherlock had first connected to them. Though Sherlock had sworn himself to a new life, I did not quite believe he would not fall back on old habits and contacts, and thus the number had remained connected.

Now, however, they were calling it near incessantly, stalking my Whitehall door, demanding to be answered. It was annoying, and my best assistant was losing sleep over it, which was intolerable.

We were standing in the car park, the weather still drizzling and cold in a true British spring. Isabel was poise perfect besides me, typing instructions concerning the Korea situation to our foreign secretaries. She was standing in three inch black heels (to match her black skirt suit) on the concrete, and I felt a sudden, inexplicable pang of concern, "Perhaps you would prefer to sit in the car, Isabel. Patrick may run the heat."

I felt more than saw her sideways glance of surprise. "I'm fine, sir."

Just so.

Sherlock's acquaintances' car arrived and parked. I purposefully neglected to bring a chair for either of them, just to show my distaste for their antics.

DI Greg Lestrade exited first, holding the door open for Molly Hooper, who scuttled out. Greg slammed the door closed and approached me looking like a thunderstorm was about to break on his face. He was wearing his usual police coat, but with stains of coffee and donut on the cuffs—rushed breakfast. The lines on his face betrayed worry; the shaving be-creamed ear, a wife's disregard; slight stiffness, backache from sleeping on the couch. Overall, his anxiety for Sherlock was adding stress to his straining marital problems. Divorce was looming.

As for Molly Hooper, face pinched in determination, lovely cocoa colored hair a tad tattered, her fists balled for courage, she'd been biting her lip in worry, pressing nails into her palms, brow crinkled. She fancied herself in love with my brother. She had also recently adopted a cat, judging by the hairs on her work trousers. She was due to call her mother as well, if the gel pen scribble peeking out of her lab coat pocket indicated correctly. Molly was the type who was close to her parents, particularly her mother, so this lack of communication would indicate guilt.

Over what? Over her feelings for Sherlock? No, not that. Humans can be irrational, but Molly certainly had no cause to blame herself over my brother. Molly kept glancing at Greg, hiding a little behind him. _Oh._ Oh my. Harboring feelings for a married Detective Inspector, are we, Molly dearest? It was certainly not anyone at work. Corpses hardly made for bedfellows.

Oh, Sherlock, what a mess you've left behind.

"Mycroft," Greg greeted, lips still in a scowl. "I assume you're going to give us answers."

I blinked a moment, batting away any pity for these unfortunates. I tapped my umbrella. "Yes, certainly."

Greg folded his arms across his chest. "Well, we're waiting. What's happened to Sherlock?"

Molly's bright brown eyes looked so vulnerable when they darted around as her heels clicked across the pavement to stand beside Greg. Her pink blouse and grey skirt were half-hidden by her labcoat, almost shielded by the professional armor. Greg's suit was slightly rumpled but demanded answers with its simplicity and practicality, the jacket long and weatherproof. A knight in shining armor, certainly. No wonder Sherlock liked these too.

Bizarrely, I wondered if Isabel was ever as frightened or vulnerable as Molly, perhaps she was young.

I sighed to indicate this meeting was as troublesome as their brains could imagine. "My brother is perfectly safe. I would not take the time to meet you otherwise."

"Where is he?" Molly spoke. Or rather squeaked. Her high, feminine voice echoed against the cars.

I positioned the umbrella in front of me and leaned forward on it. "He is currently in my employment. I deeply regret I did not remind him to notify you of his change of occupation beforehand."

"Under your employment?" Greg scoffed. "Things were just looking up for him at the Yard. He was out of rehab. I had prepared ground for him to work with us more. Why would he leave? I could have used his help on that serial suicide case."

"A case which you solved with rare aptitude yourself, Inspector," I replied, nodding my head in acknowledgement.

"Less people would have died if he'd been on it! Seven's much too many. He's better than the Yard boys. I'm not afraid to admit it."

"And—" Molly broke in. She seemed to have recovered her voice, though I could tell she was repressing the urge to wring her hands, instead clutching at a thumb. "He had just asked for body parts from me at the morgue. Some eyes. He was going to continue his work with us."

"When did he communicate these things to you?" I asked Molly. "While he was still in rehabilitation?"

"Yes. He wrote me a letter. Said he wanted to do an experiment with them when he got out." She looked down at her feet. "It doesn't make sense."

Why did my brother insist on treating people like toys that could be picked up and played with and dropped in a moment? These two were like toys, toys that thought Sherlock was going to pick them up again, when he hadn't. Or couldn't.

I repressed the urge to bring a hand to my face and instead stood straight again. "Then I must tell you my brother makes mistakes. Sherlock was under the mistaken impression that working under me would allow him to retain his old living quarters at Montague Street and thus his contact with at least you, Ms. Hooper."

"What does employment under you exactly mean, Mycroft?" Greg interrupted, hands on hips, tapping his foot in impatience. I glared at him. This attitude of entitlement had to cease.

"Just because my brother deigned to interact with you, Inspector, does not make you special. He does not love or even remotely care about _you _or, I am sorry to say, Ms. Hooper. He used you both for his own purposes for distraction, and those purposes are done. Finished. He is under my employment and care. That is all you need to know, and I regret he did not inform you himself."

They both looked stunned at this speech. Greg recovered the quickest, his lips forming a thin, angry line. "How can you say all that—"

"You're wrong," Molly warbled quietly. "He does care about Greg at least."

"And you know this how?" I seethed, absolutely done with these two and their demands. "Your own deductions?"

"He talked about him," Molly said. "He was happier."

"I'm afraid you were under an entirely false impression. He has mentioned the Inspector only once in passing in my company. And I am the closest person to him."

Greg's gaze seemed to break a little. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes a going little wild. He did not want to be done meddling in Sherlock's life, but he was about to be. I continued, "The number you have been given are going to be disconnected. Neither my brother nor I have further desire or need to keep in contact with you. It is best if you pretend you never met a Holmes."

"You can't be serious," Greg said. "We can't just forget. He's a friend to us."

"No, he's your case-solving machine and Molly's pathetic attempt at being alive." It was cruel to say, but I needed to be cruel. Showing snide teeth, I said, "The dead aren't much of a model company."

Molly's eyes flashed. Had I struck a nerve? I had intended. Let us continue: "Both of you, in your own manner, had contractual arrangements with him. The contract has ended. A good day to you all. Your driver will take you wherever you need to go."

Greg's shoulders slumped and the dazed expression cemented itself on his face. Poor man: his world was falling apart. Molly, however, had been strengthened, albeit microscopically. Interesting. She stood straighter and tugged at Greg's coat sleeve. "Let's go, Greg," she said quietly. "There's nothing more we can do here."

Greg consented to being led back to the car. For a brief flash of a moment, I thought I saw him take Molly's hand, but then they were in the car and driving away.

"That was a bit rough, sir," Isabel commented, not even looking up from her Blackberry. When I did not reply, she added, "I have disconnected the number."

I tapped my umbrella against the concrete and went to climb in my own car. Once we were both inside, the heat and engine running us back to Whitehall, I said absently, "It is sad, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth dropped her phone and looked at me in wide-eyed surprise. I was confused for a moment until I realized my faux-pas. Ah. Elizabeth was her real name, one hardly ever heard or used. She arched an eyebrow at me, and I made a grim smile. I continued without mentioning my mistake, "Those two were the closest Sherlock had to friends, and they might have become the genuine article for not his sudden career change. Not that I'm regretting my brother joining me, but he would have been happy, I think, had he remained. That sort of loyalty's hard to come by, these days. Or any day."

This car was not bugged. Patrick was trustworthy.

Elizabeth had spent an extra fifteen minutes getting ready this morning to curl the ends of her hair, so it would bounce when she moved.

She gave a wry smile, and I felt another pang in the area of my chest. Odd, that. "Indeed, sir," she said. "Shall we keep them under care?"

"The lowest sort," I nodded, turning away from her to look ahead. "Perhaps we could encourage the connection, in the future."


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello! I know this chapter is horrendously late and I apologize. It seriously did not want to be written and now it's a lot of fluff-the different Starfleet teams are too cute, in my defense. Also fun fact that the last major Original Character is introduced in this chapter and there's a small cameo to a BBC Sherlock character. First person to name the cameo gets either to request a scene in this story (ex: I want to see Mycroft eat Kentucky Fried Chicken!) OR I'll write them a 500 word ficlet (any universe, any pairing). IDK: I feel a bit spontaneous at the moment.**

**Happy reading!**

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Chapter 7

USA Starfleet Archival Division; Project Khan; Stardate: 2259

"We made it," Tim wheezed, a hand steadying him against the hospital wall. "Just—ah—give me a minute to catch my breath."

"We should have caught a shuttle," I huffed, trying to not show I was as winded as Tim was. "I _told_ you."

Tim gulped in some air and wagged a rapidly dampening piece of paper under my nose. "I got her number, didn't I? Reckon I'll knock her up tonight."

"That means something different in the States and you know it," I scowled. I breathed through my mouth a few more times and smoothed my skirt. Eyeing the clock mounted on the wall, I straightened. "Come on, we've got 15 seconds before we're late."

We had been called away from code-breaking to finally interview Captain Kirk. But the code-breaking was progressing rapidly—we were so close! We left at the last possible flight and then that ended up delayed. Then Tim—the bastard—had seen a lady on the platform he just went gaga over—insisting we use the bus system so he could chat with her the entire time about the ethics of terraforming "uninhabited" planets while the minutes ticked by so quickly we had to go straight to the hospital with all our luggage and run to Kirk's room. The whole detour was annoying and our potential lateness left me flustered: her augmented ability to speak to insects wasn't _that_ interesting.

Tim nodded to me, I took another breath to settle my professional mask in place, and I hit the green button to slide open the door to Kirk's room.

The noisy sound of angry banter hit me first, causing me to freeze up out of instinct. Kirk was alive and well, all right: so well, that he, Commander Spock, and Lieutenant Uhura were clutching mock steering wheels in their hands and the two men of the group were arguing heatedly enough to puddle an ice factory.

"Captain, it is illogical to go off the track to chase the power boost—"

"It's part of the plan, Spock!"

"Sir, I have analyzed all possible courses of action you could take now that you have acquired the secondary engines and none of them will lead you to victory."

Kirk smart-mouthed something back while Uhura's dark eyes danced with merriment. My own mouth opened and closed like a fish, unsure what to do—they were obviously having a good time—Kirk was lying in the bed with his commanders on either side, close, affectionate—an intimate moment. The fact that they cared for one another was deafening. Maybe I should come back later? Maybe I'd gotten the time wrong time?

Tim abruptly pushed me into the room, a swift _shlup_ blasting my ear—was I that stupid to stand in a doorway long enough for it to shut on me? Disoriented, I stumbled around to find myself nose to chin with Tim, who pushed me backward right in the breast. I spun again, splaying hands and legs and feet to keep balance—I heard Uhura crow in victory, but my eyes fixed on the surprise on Spock's face as he spotted us. My vision of the room seemed to tilt.

"Erm," I scrambled, gathering my limbs together. "Ah, hello again."

Kirk hadn't noticed us: he was looking at his Lieutenant Commander. "How in the blazes did we let her beat us, Spock! _Again!_ If you didn't distract me—"

"Captain."

"No, I'm serious, if you're just letting your girlfriend win, I seriously doubt your loyalty on the bridge—."

"_Captain_."

"_What._"

"You have a guest," he said reasonably.

"Aria, wasn't it?" Uhura smiled. It was a 100-LED smile, and my face became a furnace. _ Then she smiled even more._

"And Tim Howards, Aria's assistant," Tim approached Kirk's bed. Like the savior he was, he moved forward, using his height to subtly block the view of me so I had time to pull myself together. He even shook Captain Kirk's hand. "USA Archival Starfleet Division; Project Khan, though we're all from London originally."

More hand-shaking happened, video game controllers collecting on Kirk's lap. I breathed. I was a professional. I could do this. Stop being a klutz long enough to build rapport and spit out some questions and then you can go back to New York and see Holmes and Joan and Harry and crack a centuries-old code and have a nice cup of tea. _Breathe_, Aria.

Think of books and daffodils.

I plastered a smile on my face and gently touched the back of Tim's shoulder. A signal that I was done being stupid and ready face the crowd. He stepped back a bit to let me back into the circle.

"I see you're doing better, Captain," I said. I shook everyone's hand just the way Asif did: firm, reassuring, a bit like you could break people's fingers if you wanted. I hadn't meant to include that last part, but my nerves slipped in.

"You bet. Bones fixed me up."

"Your commanders missed you while you were gone."

"They've said," Kirk replied, glancing to both sides of them. He smiled too—his was similar to Uhura's even. "But they haven't said that Archives was sending their prettiest officer to interview me."

I think the whole room heard my brain stutter. That was mildly—let's just pretend that didn't just happen. My heart pounded in my ears as I swallowed down the comment and smiled out, "You're too kind, Captain."

"No, no, even the uniform suits you."

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Spock's eyebrow rise. I glanced at Uhura. She was still basking in her racing victory, her smile quirked mischievous, her eyes almost as twinkling bright.

"Too kind, too kind," I repeated, not knowing what else to do. "I assume your Commanders did inform you about Project Khan?"

"Yes," Captain Kirk said. "Please, sit down." He gestured behind us, I realized there were two chairs underneath the television. "Did you guys come straight from the airport?"

"Unfortunately, yes," I replied, suppressing the urge to shoot Tim a dirty look. "Other aspects of the Project have been keeping us occupied and engrossed."

"And employed," Kirk said simply. He had been watching Tim and I as we sat and hid our luggage behind us, but now he looked to his lap and twiddled his thumbs. Quieter, he continued, "You know, I'm very sorry about the London Archives explosion. It was—you lost colleagues." He looked up through his lashes.

Maybe I had misinterpreted before. He was actually being…very kind.

Tim cleared his throat. "It couldn't be helped. The only people who knew didn't care."

Tim's jaw was clenched a little and his voice sounded bitter and harsh. Oh dear. I had my bag on and fished out his tablet, slipping it under his fingers. He gripped it more tightly than was necessary. "Thank you," I said to Kirk, looking into his blue eyes to convey sincerity. "With the crashed starship outside, not everyone remembers about us."

Uhura stood, long legs and all. She was out of uniform, wearing simple denim trousers and loose red t-shirt for a band I'd never heard of. "Well, Spock and I will leave you to it."

"It was nice to see you again," I smiled at her. She really was beautiful. And she had enough proficiency in languages to make any Starfleet officer's head spin.

Spock disengaged from Kirk's bed, but put a hand on Kirk's shoulder. "We will return another time, Captain."

Kirk looked up. His head was kind of square, come to think of it. I mean, squishy skin and dirty-blonde bedhead aside, it was square. The Captain said, "Sure thing."

"Archivist Hooper, Archivist Tim," Spock nodded to us. Uhura took his hand and the pair left with another _shlup._

Kirk looked a little wistfully after them, but in a flash the expression was gone. His blue eyes focused on us. "Do you want to start?"

Kirk attempted to flirt with me more at the beginning of the interview, but as we went they lessoned and his face grew pensive and serious. Tim quietly tapped out the conversation, the noise fading into the comforting background of my mind.

"He knew exactly what he was doing and exactly what he wanted," Kirk was saying, "And I believed him—we all believed him at one point or another. Even though Khan did some terrible things—like you said, there's a starship in the bay—it was Admiral Marcus who drove him."

"We have on record that Marcus was holding Khan's former crew hostage."

"Yeah, the way to control Khan—the real way—is through his crew. He'll do anything for them." Kirk leaned forward in his bed. "Absolutely anything."

Kirk's hand were opening and closing. "He wants all of them alive." He licked his lips. "Khan was evil and brought out the evil in others."

My own eyebrow rose a bit at that, but I was unsure if I should comment. Protecting one's crew didn't sound evil. "Could you elaborate on that?"

Kirk's blue eyes refocused on my face. "When you're Captain, you go to great lengths to protect your crew, but Khan was as extreme as any of his abilities. He was willing to take out the entire Starfleet Federation to ensure the safety of a single crew member. It was like he had no stop switch. No sense of morality, of going too far. Protecting your crew is a burden and duty of a Captain, but you've got to at least hesitate at completely destroying someone else's. He didn't even blink."

Kirk's hands found the dropped the video game controllers and gripped one tightly. His eyes dropped to them. "He nearly destroyed everything."

The Captain seemed to dim and his body shrink. That was plenty. I was feeling ill myself and just wanted the interview to end. "Thank you for your time, Captain Kirk."

He startled a little, looking back up to us, his eyes a bit watery. "Anytime," he swallowed down a lump. "Um, I think Bones has to check on me anyway."

Tim and I gathered our things and went to shake hands again. Kirk used the time to compose himself, and shook our hands genially enough. "Hey, if you ever need anything, don't be afraid to call me up. You at Archives must be having a tough gig."

I was surprised at this generosity. "Thank you, sir."

"Jim. Call me Jim."

With one last pleasant look, we were walking down the sterile white and blue hallways of the hospital in silence, moving quietly out of the way of doctors and nurses as they gently padded their way to their patients. Kirk's testimony had been interesting—it had put a certain spin on the Captain-crew dynamic that I hadn't heard before. It seemed like some sort of spiritual sin for a Captain to destroy another's crew. I mean, obviously it's wrong to kill people and there were Federation regulations about Captain-crew relations, but it was like Kirk and Khan were supposed to share some spiritual code of conduct. Khan had taken his personal duty much too far. Kirk's word choice that Khan had "no stop switch" was interesting.

And how did all of this connect to the Holmes'? One of them had been augmented and we knew that augmentation led to Khan, but not if there'd been any intermediary processes or changes, if the augmentation had been willing—hell, even the exact nature of it. We had plenty of testimonies documenting Khan's endurance, speed, strength, marksmanship, and technical ability. In his own words, he was better "at everything." But what was everything?

And was it better or, like Kirk had said, just more extreme?

Could it be possible that Khan was extremely moral?

For fuck's sake, the man had blown apart my office and burned my colleagues. Extreme morality or no, this did not justify his actions. It never would. He couldn't—his family was not worth more than mine. Thank all creation that Tim and Harry hadn't been on site that day.

During my musings, we made it out of hospital and onto the curb.

"I called a cab," Tim said. He had been oddly quiet. Usually he liked to talk things out. His eyes looked troubled.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"That was just weird."

"What was weird?"

"Seeing Captain Kirk hit on you."

I quirked an eyebrow. "It's not like I wear a sign saying 'I only date girls,' and I think he was mostly being nice."

"Well, it was still off." He narrowed his eyes at me, as if seeing something different. "You're you. I've only seen you fail at flirting."

The cab arrived, we stuffed our baggage in the boot, and in we climbed. "Take us to Starfleet HQ, please," I said before Tim could protest.

"You're not even going to let us drop off our things at our flats?" I could see him struggling to hide his smile.

"Think of it as your punishment for first, making us almost late and second, commenting on my love life. Kirk was being kind and even then it hardly matters—I doubt we'll see him again."

"He offered to help us, you know. We could use that connection."

"To do what?"

"I dunno—he's the best and brightest of Starfleet. And," Here Tim waggled his eyebrows, "quite the ladies' gent. I bet you could step in to mend his trail of broken hearts."

I scoffed. "That's absolutely enough about me dating. Just focus on your girl for tonight." I really was done with the topic at present. This new interview and the Holmes code were plenty to occupy me—I didn't need to do more with my evenings besides detox from that.

The cab stopped outside Starfleet and the driver gruffed out our fare. I handed over the money and added a little extra tip after I noticed the torn picture of two children on the dash. Not all was right at home. The man thanked us and helped us get our luggage out before driving off.

Not much had changed at HQ—the _USS Vengeance_ was still smoking in the bay. In Starfleet-wide message, we had been notified that it was being taken apart piece by piece as quickly as possible, but there were some restrictions on what they could do since they didn't want it to collapse and injure workers, civilians, or even more San Francisco infrastructure. Accounting for this slackened dismemberment and the time necessary to rehabilitate local wildlife and businesses, the message estimated it would be a year before the Bay was back to normal.

Tim still seemed to be refusing to look at it. It was going to be a long year.

In the meantime, it was nice to have our own offices in the corners of our brother Archives office, with a lovely Armenian receptionist out front. Within a moment of her smile, I felt calm settle over my shoulders as we rose in the elevator and walked to our pseudo workplace home. While we were here, Harry had instructed me to snag some processing equipment for her and I thought maybe I would check in with Inspector Dimmock and update Asif and—

Also find out what a Starfleet Lieutenant was doing in our office.

"Hello," I said as I entered, hurriedly putting on an appropriately professional-yet-menacing face, because really, what the hell was he doing here.

"Ah!" the stranger startled a bit from where he had been sitting on my desk tabletop and admiring our window's view. "Hello, hello, I'm sorry for seeming to barge in like this, but I was told this the current offices for Project Khan? The receptionist—Sasha—said the Archivists would be in today."

He bustled forward and extended a hand. I shook it just like Asif would, this time intending to crush fingers. "You're in the right place. My name's Aria Hooper and I head the project. How can I help you?"

The man gave a winning, boyish grin. He had a mop of wavy blonde hair and a narrow face with broad shoulders. His blue eyes had an excited, almost agitated look to them, and he gave a lithe, lean impression, that he would blow away any moment. Or pounce upon you. It was hard to tell.

Tim simply brushed past him and began waking up and connecting our tablets to the main computers. The man _had_ burst into our office, gold shirt or no.

"I'm Antony, Lieutenant Anthony Marcus. My father was Fleet Admiral Alexander Marcus." He grasped my hand again and shook up and down excitedly, placing his other hand on my wrist to keep me there. Discomfort and wariness twisted in my gut.

"Oh," I faltered. The son of the disgraced head of Starfleet was visiting Archives? "A pleasure, sir." He released me and glanced at Tim. "This is my assistant Tim Howards. Please, sit." I gestured towards the couch. Tim barely nodded at us before re-focusing on our computers. Lieutenant Marcus nodded back and sat on the couch, spreading an arm over the back. I sat in one of the chairs across from him.

"Aria—may I call you Aria? I extend my apologies for my father's actions. I had no idea of or involvement in his project to militarize Starfleet."

Well, that was blunt. I crossed my arms and tilted my head, an indication to continue. Even though Khan had done the actual deed, this man's father played a huge part in why my friends weren't alive.

He sucked in a breath and his eyes grew wide. He changed his position on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward as if he wanted to touch my hands again. "Say you believe me, Aria."

What was his game? I uncrossed my arms and huffed, "If you were involved, I'm sure Inspector Dimmock would have you under arrest or Khan would have you dead."

"Exactly," he said, head bobbing up and down eagerly. He leaned a little further towards me. "My sister and I didn't know anything about my father's plans. But you wouldn't believe the sort of backlash we're experiencing. Captain Kirk has taken Carol under his protection—his entire team has vouched for her honor. But I…" He closed his eyes as if in pain. "No one says anything about me. I was always in my father's shadow, but now that he's gone, everyone sees me and I have no place to hide."

This was an interesting take. Since I didn't go on space missions, I was hardly familiar with the current Commanders and hierarchy, and Lieutenant's name hadn't been mentioned by Harry or Tim, who did keep more track of that sort of thing.

"I don't want to hide, Aria, but I became interested in your project as a way to," He licked his lips, searching for a word, "lesson…the consequences."

I bristled and I heard Tim punch out a keyboard key. I hissed, "If you're hoping to alter our report to put your father in a better light, I'm going to call Security and have you thrown into the street."

Lieutenant Marcus paled even further. "No, no I wouldn't dream of it! I just…" His presence shrank into the cushy folds of the couch—he was suddenly smaller and more vulnerable. Since he had backed off, I felt a calm pervade my senses, an almost maternal instinct to protect kick in. If a verbal lashing was all it took to make him back off, I would be safe. I was being unprofessional. I should listen to what Lieutenant Marcus had to say.

"I wish to be a resource to you," the Lieutenant clarified. "A resource to make sure my father's crimes are firmly pinned on him and him alone. It will save me and my sister grief. Believe me, this is my last hope for this. I've tried making public statements to this effect—he hardly spent any time with his children; neither Carol or I knew about Khan—but no one seems to want to listen." He clenched his hands into fists. "Please help me."

"You want to be interviewed?"

"And put on the public record."

I considered. "And you never met Khan or John Harrison."

"No—think of it was a data negative, an interview explaining why you didn't investigate more into the Marcus family—I know it was from your tip off that my father's house was searched for copies of Archive files, though I'm sorry to hear you didn't find anything—Father was never one for records. But you have power. Archives is seen as the ultimate source of neutral, accurate information. While politicians come and go, Archives watches and waits and writes, outlasting any and all time."

I looked at Tim. He was scowling. Turning back to the Lieutenant, I asked, "You must understand we're not directly collecting data on your late father's plan to militarize. All those are with the police. Our main focus is on Khan and making future generations alert and wary of his capabilities."

Lieutenant Marcus nodded vigorously again. "I understand completely. I only ask for a footnote's footnote in your report. Though seeming small, it will help tremendously. And it won't take more than a day to do—my schedule is entirely at your disposal. My sister and I will be forever grateful."

Tim was making cut-off-his-head signs behind Lieutenant's back. I raised an eyebrow at him, and he switched to miming being hung by a rope. But why? Why couldn't we help him? He seemed honestly bothered by it. And if he really had no idea about Khan or his father's plans, it wouldn't take much time at all. I would need to hear Tim's reasons against it and probably talk to Harry too.

I stood. "I'll have to think about it, Lieutenant. Our project thought it was done with the interviewing stage."

He stood as well and grasped my hand again, patting our joined digits. "But you must help me. Please."

"I'll think about it," I said. I tried to pull my hand away.

"Over dinner," he said, pulling my hand back. "Let me take you to dinner. I won't be in this uniform and you won't be in yours and I can better explain everything—I'm so distressed now. I can hardly think. A drink will calm me down. Please, forgive me, I've hardly been sleeping for the anxiety. Despite Kirk's promise, I worry over Carol."

"Captain Kirk agreed to help you?"

"Carol spoke to him and she's of course more persuasive than me—you know how the Captain admires logic."

I assumed this was a veiled reference to Spock, but my head was a currently awhirl with the fact that this man had just asked me for dinner and drinks with desperate, tearful eyes. What was I supposed to do? He was clearly in need of some support. He was borderline mad.

Tim suddenly appeared from his desk. He stepped right between our hands and smiled genially at Lieutenant Marcus. "Sir, I need to have Aria approve these interview transcripts, but I'm sure she'd love to have dinner with you tonight. Would seven be all right? You can pick her up from here."

Lieutenant Marcus blinked back whatever tears were threatening to shed. "Yes, perfect," he replied, finally releasing my hand and backing off to the door. "I'll see you at seven, Aria."

"Sure," I said. He waved once before exiting. Tim rounded on me and grabbed my wrist. "Tim, what _the hell_ was that about? First, you're saying to hang the poor man who's obviously close to a mental break, by the way, and now you set up a date with him?"

Tim dragged me over to main computer monitor and hit a button. The screen flashed to calling Harry Watson.

"Tim, what—"

Harry's face interrupted from the screen, her lovely blonde hair in a messy bun, "Oi, chums! What's going on—"

"Lieutenant Anthony Marcus just asked Aria out on a date," Tim said through clenched teeth. "I repeat, some asshole bloke asked Aria out on a date."

"_What?_" Harry shouted into the phone.

"I think he's fishing for information about Khan," Tim explained. "You should have seen the act he just pulled."

"Did Aria say no?" Harry sidetracked. She must be talking to us through her tablet because I could see the black tips of her fingers as she gripped the screen. "Aria, tell me you said no. That man's father _blew up_ Debra."

"Tim, what are you going on about?" I interrupted. "That sounds completely mental."

"No it isn't!" he shot back. "Why else would he randomly come down to talk to you—"

Holmes' voice floated over, "Harriet, what on earth is happening on the other end of that phone call—"

"_Did Aria say no or not!" _Harry shouted. "This is important, especially if he's a creep!"

I snapped. I was so done with males messing with me today. At the top of my lungs, I shouted, "_Silence!_"

Everyone shut up.

"Now," I huffed, running a hand down my skirt. "One at a time." I addressed Harry first. "Watson, we interviewed Kirk. It went fine. He hit on me and Tim was upset for stupid reasons. We arrived back at Archives to find Lieutenant Anthony Marcus in our office. Yes, he is the son of Admiral Alexander Marcus. His sister is Carol Marcus, who was on the _Enterprise_ at the time Khan was. He seemed a very earnest fellow. He said he and his sister have been experiencing some negative backlash from their father's actions, though neither of them knew about Khan or their father's plan. The _Enterprise_ crew has been vouching from Carol at least, which has helped her out a bit—maybe him a little—but he's still getting the brunt. He wants us to interview him, conclude that he wasn't involved, and put it into our report since we're a relatively neutral third party. If Archives comes out saying that he wasn't involved, the public will lighten up on him. Or so he thinks. He wants to take me out of dinner to further explain and, yes, no doubt find out more what we're doing. That would be completely natural since I doubt he has enough clearance to see Asif's direct orders to us. Tim," I narrowed my eyes at him, "is a massive tosser who said 'yes' for me on this date, even after earlier me saying I didn't want him mucking into my love life. His turn to speak." I poked him with a finger.

"Anthony was agitated the whole time he was here," Tim said. "Like he was nervous about something. And does anyone really believe he wasn't involved with his father? Carol, maybe—youngest children are constantly left out of things. But barely anyone knows about this project—how did he find out? Wouldn't that connote some secret access to things? I don't buy his 'woe's me' act. I wouldn't trust him farther than I could throw him, which is in the negative numbers."

"Unnecessary bias," I countered. "You don't like him because of what his father did, which I admit was terrible. But if he had anything to do with his father, Inspector Dimmock would have him in custody. Or Khan would have killed him. Like I said before. To his face."

Tim ignored me. "I set up Aria on the date, so we could find out more what he was on about and _then_ turn him into Dimmock. I have a date tonight—we could go to the same place and spy on him together."

Harry was silent for a moment. Then: "I like Tim's plan. Let him think we believe him and then skewer the skivving git."

"How do you know he's a git!" I threw up my hands in frustration. "He seemed fine to me!"

"That is one weird thing," Harry agreed. "Aria's instincts are usually pretty spot. Hey!"

There was a scuffle and Harry's face disappeared to be replaced by Holmes' sleep deprived one. "Harriet's keen ability to not speak quieter than a city bus have made it impossible not overhear your situation. Let me look into this Lieutenant Anthony. I wouldn't want Ms. Hooper to be in any danger. Tim, you will stay with her during this date?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. I'll message you what I research. It will be a nice break from this coding codswallop. Oh yes—My Watson also says to carry mace."

"Thank you, Holmes. And I will, Joan," I replied, biting my lip a little that yet another person was taking interest in this stupid dispute. "I think I have some back at my flat."

"Talk to you later then."

With a distant cry of "Sherly, those are _my_ friends—give it back," the message ended.

"What an interesting age we live in," I said, dripping sarcasm, rubbing my face to clear my head. I sighed. Guess I did have a date tonight.

"Maybe the people in San Francisco do want to stab me," Tim said. "But they're just quieter about it."


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello! I know it's been forever and I'm sorry! I think this is going to be one of those fics that only updates every once in awhile. My life is pretty busy the moment, often leaving only a few days (or even 24 hours) for me to write a chapter of something before I start a real life project. And sometimes ****_Love is a Battlefield_**** wins that contest, as other authors are waiting on me to cough up something (see my profile's Story Notes for more info on that). I really am sorry about this, but rest assured that I will never abandon a fic. It's going to be finished... eventually.**

**Warning that this chapter gets super schmoopy.**

* * *

Chapter 8

Dartmoor, Baskerville Laboratories; Stardate: 2011

Today was the day. I was going to meet him, finally. "Him" meant Doctor John Watson. That's all I knew about him—all Mycroft would let me know. It was brilliant, this body, this mind. Dazzling. I didn't want it chained when I was just reaching the heights.

John—Watson—Doctor Watson—what should I call him?—was approaching. I could feel it, a slight tug behind my navel. Mycroft had assured me that this would be normal, that their experiments had encouraged an ability to locate the other half.

Other half…. Now, in this new body, this notion tasted oddly on the tongue. What need did I have for others when I was like this? When not only my brain, but my strength, speed, and endurance were only to be matched by the most powerful of mutants?

I hadn't been allowed to read Dr. Watson's file. The scientists didn't think it was necessary, and Mycroft and Mr. Brooke thought it might create bias, might muck up the chemical induced relationship they were to have now, especially if the natural one contrasted sharply. I hadn't even seen his picture. I had spent that annoying amount of time filling out personality surveys in hopes of getting the correct match, and presumably he had too. This "John."

Was his name even "John?" A terribly common name for someone who was going to be extraordinary. If I had anything to do with it. Mycroft and Brooke weren't so petty to lie about the name though—and it was pointless if we were going to be as close as they designed us to be. I would know all his secrets.

I was impatient. Brooke was fetching Doctor Watson, and I was to wait in my laboratory. I had a whole floor for my own experiments, and it was usually a place I could come to have some solitary musings, as I did not require help. Mycroft wanted to see if my altered mind could come up with solutions more quickly than a team of regular scientists, and, assuming this beaker didn't explode in the next twenty hours, he would be correct.

I was not nervous. I was impenetrable. My skin was not jittery with energy, my stomach not skydiving to my feet as my sensitive ears caught—through the solid walls—the sound of Brooke's Italian shoes against the tiles, followed by an unknown rhythm of footsteps. I focused on the bubbling beaker.

"Sherlock," Mr. Brooke's voice sang out before there was a knock at the door. "Time to meet your partner in crime."

I did not even flinch. The door opened, and I took in Mr. Brooke's day in a glance: favorite Westwood suit fresh from the cleaners, shower and shave this morning, manicure last night, the slightest bit of stubble calculated to be casual, the dark eyes' precise mathematical gleam to give away nervousness and excitement. He was not nervous or excited enough to not eat lunch however, as his orange-juice-and-tomato-and-cheese-sandwich smelling breath wafted over my nose at his second call of "Sherlock, _darling_, meet Dr. John Watson."

I pursed my lips as I turned to fully orient myself towards Dr. Watson. Why did Mr. Brooke insist on using inane pet names—

Oh.

_John._

He was just sliding into the room behind Brooke, and he was perfect. Sandy blond hair just growing out of a military cut, an off white karate gi tied snug against his waist. He started the training later than I did as he was just losing a slight softness around his middle—he would need a gi size smaller soon, and I would get it, wouldn't I, would get this man anything he wanted.

The gi had been washed last night and unwrinkled—a neat nature? Was John neat? I could be neat too. Eyes—I took a step closer—windows to the soul. John had a lined face—seen things, dark things, but also laughter—but his eyes seemed to be blue and sure and full of wonder. He'd never needed vision correction—any problems would have been fixed through the program of course, but he also didn't instinctually peer like most of limited sight. Chin was also shaven, and shaving was a habit of years, John didn't like facial hair, or a dislike had been ingrained into him.

John took a step forward, the sound echoing a bit against the tile, and I instantly focused in on that step—John had almost tripped, had half expected himself to limp. War injury? John was a solider before this program certainly—how else would he have heard of it? My heart was hammering, and I didn't care, didn't care for the rushing sound in my ears or the way my legs was cemented into the tiles because the facts were aligning of John's life, my brain clicking into them place.

John was a doctor in the field hospital, but had trained extensively in the army. He liked physical training, the rush of danger. He _wanted_ to be more out on the front lines. John's stepping out during his service—an incredibly stupid move—and getting himself shot must have caught Mycroft's attention, brought him here, to me, for this stupid move must have been very brave. It had got him injured: at least rewarded him with a psychosomatic limp, likely an injury in reality was well. This program's training had cured the real injury of course, but they were still working on the psychosomatic limp with a standard issue therapist—perhaps even Ella, who had been mine during the psychological examination. A man like John likely secretly hated therapy. John was eager for this project, a secret adrenaline junkie, committed in his choice, had a kind, good heart from the doctor side of things, and had a rueful streak of practicality from the fact that he met in clean workout clothes, not bothering with looks.

John held out his left hand—was he left handed?—to reach out to me, his mouth open. I met him with my own hand and laced our fingers together, marveling at the immediacy and the rightness of the touch. John's hands—I wiggled my fingers a bit to test for their calluses. A surgeon then. John had been a surgeon.

"Hello," he said and I loved his voice, his faint warbly, warm accent. He'd spent a bit of time in London for that sort of linguistic spin. My heart beat impossibly harder.

"Hello," I answered, and we were close enough for me to see his pupils dilate involuntarily. To be fair, it could have been because he had to look up to see my face due to our height difference and they were adjusting to the light. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Startled: a slight pulling away. "Pardon?"

"Where did you serve?" I clarified. "You must have served in one of Britain's wars to end up here."

John smiled to reveal perfect teeth—been able to afford braces as a child—and chuckled in a manner that reminded me of logs being tumbled into a fire. "Afghanistan."

"Perfect," I breathed, once again taking in his face, noticing some curious light brown streaks in the depths of his eyes. "Perfect."

John opened his mouth to reply, but a distant cough interrupted him. I scowled at Mr. Brooke. "I arranged the Training Room for you both. You've got all afternoon, but the science team and I will be watching to make sure you behave. Go through your regular workouts and explain them to each other. Then you've got the rest of today off."

I briefly glared at Mr. Brooke for the interruption before gazing back at John and nodding. "All right."

"You'll need to change, Sherlock," Mr. Brooke prodded.

"It's been taken into account, Mr. Brooke," I dismissed in favor of observing if John had any moles or freckles on his neck—he didn't.

"Just like that beaker was taken into account," sniffed Mr. Brooke. "Did you two seriously not notice a beaker explode around you?"

"What!" I let go of John's hand and twirled around to the lab table, where indeed my beaker was in glass pieces. "Those equations were absolutely correct!"

I swooped over to the corner with the safety equipment and grabbed a cloth and dust bin. I couldn't believe—John was distracting, that was sure, though worth it. "Mind the spill," I told him. "I apologize."

"Is this what you do then?" asked John. My throat constricted, and my heart pumped harder in response as I began mobbing up with the rag, pushing things into the bin. "Are you a scientist?"

"I was a consulting detective before I signed on," I explained. "I invented the job before gracefully retiring to take up this. I do dabble in chemistry. I'm trying to compose an aerosol that will cause blood cells affected by radiation to glow on contact—it will be useful for forensics. Would that interest you, Doctor?"

"John. Call me John."

I smiled. I assumed I would be able to use his first name, but it was polite to be asked. The asking added thrills up my spine. "John," I repeated, and softer, "John."

"Sherlock," he breathed in response, coming closer. I stilled, bin still in hand. He reached out a slightly shaking hand and cupped my cheek. "A pleasure to meet you."

I leaned into the touch. His hands were so warm—comforting in the way a cup of tea was on a winter day.

Mr. Brooke coughed again, but he was smirking like he was a cat with a large canary. "That's enough: come along you two."

"Yes, Mr. Brooke," John answered for us. "All right." Something like regret flashed upon his face for a moment before placid acceptance took its place—did John have trust issues? I hadn't deduced anything untrustworthy about Mr. Brooke—the smiling Irishman seemed loyal enough to be worth my brother's attention.

In any case, I dropped the cleaning and followed John and therefore Mr. Brooke out of my laboratory to the compound's men's locker room. "Go get changed," ordered Mr. Brooke. "John will be waiting for you."

We were going to be separated? So soon? I glanced at John whose smile had slanted downward as he glanced between me and Mr. Brooke's sugar-coated grin. "We would rather not," John said. "It feels…wrong."

"It's part of testing," Mr. Brooke insisted, tapping his foot. "Take a breath and try."

I took a breath, but it didn't assuage the twist in my gut as John walked off, fully frowning now, hand to his own stomach. He glanced over his shoulder once before Mr. Brooke effectively pushed him around the corner.

I let out a shaky breath. Had I really thought I could live without John only twenty minutes ago? Incredible. As I stepped into the locker room and changed into my gi, I examined my feelings. Mycroft was still important—if anything, I wanted to thank him lavishly for giving me John. Father was still as mildly distasteful as expired milk and Mother as loving as childhood could be. Lestrade and Molly held their pillars as counted friends. I—I had to contact them! I had to tell them about John. Everyone had to know about John, how precious he was, how good.

I imagined my brain activity now, the chemicals and hormones and neurotransmitters working furiously, connecting and breaking and reconnecting into a new John-like shape. Wondrous.

I had just finished tightening the belt of my gi when suddenly there was a burning sensation in my jaw, as if someone had thrown an invisible brick. John! I raced out of the locker room with all my considerable speed, bursting into the Training Room just in time to see Mr. Brooke, his back to me, raise his fist to hit John again. I snarled and prepared to swing because how dare he, how dare he hurt my John—

My knuckles were just about to make contact with Mr. Brooke's head when John shouted, "Stop!"

I froze. Punching Brooke was… wrong.

Brooke slowly spun on his heel to face me, a manic smile on his face, before stepping out from between John and I. "Excellent, excellent!" he squealed. "You sensed John's pain and came running and stopped when told. Yes?"

"I felt John's pain, you madman," I said, breathing hard, noting John's anxiousness. "You could have been killed. I would have killed you."

Mr. Brooke waggled a finger at me. "But you didn't!"

John huffed. "What kind of tests are you running? That was suicidal."

"No pain, no gain," Brooke sang. He backed towards the locker door. "But I will now leave you to it. We will be watching." He motioned to the blurred glass windows above the gym. The Training Room was designed for both exercise and exercise under observation, so about eight feet from the ground, the walls had been replaced with foggy office space, where the Science Team took notes upon notes upon notes on me. And on John. On the both of us now.

But now more importantly, for the first time, I was the resemblance of alone with John. He spoke first, "I can't believe you stopped. I thought it wouldn't work."

"Did he truly hurt you?" I asked. I wanted to crowd closer, to examine John myself. "Did he?"

"He punched me, but that hardly hurts anymore." John grinned, a broad expression that filled his face. "It was actually pretty brilliant."

I smiled a little. "I do enjoy the high pain tolerance."

"Ah, I meant you," explained John. "You were brilliant."

I was taken aback. He seemed to really mean it. Only Mycroft and Mother actually thought I was brilliant. To hide this though, I said, "Well, go on. Show me your warm up routine and then we can spar."

~8~

John and I warmed up slowly before beginning to compare statistics and proofs of our skill: reps on the weights, distances run on the treadmill, techniques in Birdjitsu, feelings on the enforced daily meditation (incredibly dull, but bearable and perhaps necessary)—whatever came to our minds. John thought we should go to the shooting range; compare our accuracies with the various gunpowder monstrosities. For now, it seemed we were evenly matched.

The best, by far and away, was the sparring. Neither of us could beat the other at that. It was like…. I knew his body, the moves of his muscles under his gi, the strains and pulleys of the very fibers. And he knew me as well. We were weren't trying to beat the other, more just tossing back and forth kicks and punches, but somehow, without thought, we were graceful, as if fighting in a cloud. It was just… easy.

And we talked: we talked and talked and talked. John filled me in on his earlier life. He was a Captain of the Royal Army, technically. He had an annoying alcoholic sister named Harry who had recently divorced her wife Clara. His mother and father had died in a car accident two years ago while he was in Afghanistan. He'd taken his first day off in his working life when he'd found out—did I know he ran a hospital out there? In the desert? Had they told me anything about him?

"You seem to know all of this already," said John, easing into an upward kick to my face. "They didn't let me see your file."

"I didn't know about your family," I replied with an easy dodge. "But I knew about the hospital."

"How?" John punched towards my chest and followed with an upper cut to the windpipe, both of which I blocked. "How do you know?"

I stepped back—John was breathing heavily now and gratefully took the break, doubling over to rest his hands on his knees. I was breathing hard too, not that I wanted to show it. "I deduced it," I said between deep breaths.

"You did what now?"

I jogged off the mat to the side of the room where they had cubby holes of white towels and water bottles. I grabbed a bottle for myself and threw one backwards at John, and by the satisfying smack, he was able to catch. I retrieved two towels and handed him one as he chugged back the water.

"Is it a secret?" he asked once he was done. "Never know what I'm not supposed to know with this."

"No, I…" I fidgeted. Most people hated my deductions. I wanted John to stay, to allow me to be near. I had been on my best behavior all afternoon in an attempt to not ward him off.

John capped his water bottle and began toweling his sweating head of hair. He quirked his head to the side as he did so, still looking at me. God, I could watch this man forever. "Tell me," he said.

The hint of command in his voice sent a shiver up my spine. I obediently rattled the deduction out.

John said, "That. Was. Amazing."

I fought back a blush. Oh, how _had_ Mycroft found him? He truly was perfect.

"Can you do that with anyone?"

"I observe everything and from that I deduce everything."

"And that's how you solved detective cases?"

"Yes."

"Fantastic. You should tell me about those."

I sucked in a breath sharply and didn't bother to hide my smile.

John glanced around the gym. "Do you reckon we can leave for the day? I've worked out more than I usually do already and I'm starving."

We heard a tapping on the glass above, and a blurred figure nodded its head vigorously. With that as our go head, we went into the locker room, and I became hyper aware that John was going to be undressed for the first time since I met him. John curled in the fingers of left hand before splaying them—he knew it too.

I followed him back into the locker room, firmly shutting the door behind us. It had a fairly standard layout: tile everywhere, showers to our right, lockers to our left, both concealed from each other by a wall. John went to the lockers first. My stomach undulated.

John opened his locker without looking at me. I went to mine and slowly opened it, waiting from some indication as to whether to undress in front of each other or not. It was… strange. It was like I knew him already, yet I only had just enough to go on. I hid my head behind my locker's door, waiting to see what he would do.

I heard a sigh and a shifting of cloth. A cough. I looked.

John had a hand in his locker resting on a white shower towel, but beyond that he was naked. His body was so compact and neat, quite right for his short frame—my deduction about the hardening stomach muscles had been correct earlier. He had tan lines at his wrists. His pubic hair was light, his penis just peeking out. A scar marked his left shoulder like an exclamation point. I closed the distance between us and touched the scar. "You were very brave, but very, very stupid to get this. And I thank you, for it brought you to me."

John's eyes were getting watery with emotion. "It's strange to ask questions when you—I already know the answer, but—do you—will you take a shower?"

"Of course," I said. "But first."

I leaned down and kissed him.

As much as I despised speaking in cliches, the kiss felt _right_. Easy: just as everything else was with John. I had kissed John a thousand times. John had cupped the back of my neck a thousand times, had pulled me down a thousand times, had opened his mouth and sucked on my tongue a thousand times more. My fingers already knew his soft hair. His masculine scent, amplified through his sweat, was as familiar as home.

He broke the kiss, and I touched our foreheads. "John."


End file.
